


Sick World that Damns its Saviors

by RavenSinead



Series: Transient Eternity [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Changing Destiny, Crisis of Faith, Dragon Age 2 - Freeform, Dragon Age Inquisition, F/F, Forgiving Fate, Love Never Fails, Making peace, Qunari Uprising, Return of the Gods, Rooting Out Corruption, Suffering for Love, Understanding the Seekers, mage/templar war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-01 18:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 95,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13300350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenSinead/pseuds/RavenSinead
Summary: Death and resurrection. Endings and beginnings. For everything that falls, something rises to take its place. But what if exactly what falls is returned, with a different purpose? The world is changing and the sky is dark. Maker save us all. A continuation of my Dragon Age series. Featuring Leliana and Salem Cousland, as well as all OCs. Multiple character POV. Spans DA2





	1. Written Confession

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing. Dragon Age, stories and characters are owned by EA Games and BioWare

**Salem Cousland**

_My dearest Leliana,  
_

_I have struggled with these words for so long. They linger in my chest like dead things...dead as I am...or perhaps was. I know that I should not be here. I know that my breath, if not stolen, is borrowed, and that my new, one, sole purpose is to cause you pain. That is a travesty I cannot endure. That is a crime I cannot commit._

_However, these dead words linger, press, and ache. I must speak in some form or these dead words will corrupt my blood and mind until my purpose is fulfilled. So, let me speak them, here and now. In the quiet sanctity of this moment, let me believe that you are listening, and that you forgive._

_I can see your reaction already, that precious crease between your elegant brows, the slight downturn of your heavenly lips, the questions that dance in your ocean eyes. You wonder what I might have done that merits forgiveness, as you did so often, long ago, when first we lived and breathed and loved. The one thing you think you might have to forgive is my death, but I have done much worse things than dying._

_I have lived a life that I was never meant to live. I know that I am not making any sense, but I hope you will believe me when I say there is so very little sense to be made of this. Of all the tales I know, and all the ones you told me through the nights, never did one speak of a resurrected warrior. Never did one allude to a god who would straddle the world of the living and the Veil, and reach into the world beyond to drag a mortal back into existence._

_I remember what being happy was, Leliana. It was resting in your arms, listening to your voice...looking at you as you lay asleep. It was accepting my Calling and going to my final rest. A rest that, for a second time, I was not allowed. But this letter's purpose is not to cry to you, or to bemoan the fate that is now mine. I have always attempted to accept my destiny, as I did during the Blight. No, this is not a letter of grief, but of knowledge._

_I have been brought back to the world of the living by a force that seemed malevolent and mysterious from the first. Now, it is confirmed that Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds, is something so much more than mortal. She had the ability to claw her way through life and into eternity and drag me away, once more, from my family. Away from my vigil...my wait for you. Not to sound morbid, but yes, I did wait for you in the life after. No more do I wait. I live again._

_I was sent back to Ferelden, by Flemeth, to find Morrigan. I do not why I was ordered on this mission...I do know that I attempted to flee, to hide from the gaze of the entity I did not wish to serve. But I was found, chastised, and sent back to my search. I went to the Korcari Wilds and...and along my journey, I saw how much my beloved Ferelden had changed._

_In so many towns, I saw mages walking amongst the people, being spoken to without fear and treated as equals. Even those of the elvhen were treated as a true citizen of Ferelden. And, yes, while I saw templars there too, they were not overbearing to their charges. People speak will of Alistair, and while there will always be those who condemn the king, I bore no witness to public outcry against him as I journeyed._

_He has...he has attempted to make the changes I asked of him at his coronation, and the Ferelden I have borne witness to is proof of his incorruptibility and his honor. I wished so much to see his face, to embrace him and see what has become of him through these years, but to do so would...would be to ruin him. I cannot break the king I helped create, no matter how much I long for a friendly face who knows me as I would be known, not as a masked stranger with a rasping voice broken by years of disuse. Or perhaps my voice is broken because I speak so little. Less than I did when first we met._

_It seems that I am to be consistently deprived of one sense or ability. Once, I could not see. Now, it is all I can do to articulate a word. But perhaps the time for those such as I to speak has come to an end. I do not feel that I walk in a world that I belong in. I feel this more strongly than ever I did before. Regardless, I am becoming distracted from the true purpose of this letter._

_I did find Morrigan, in the Dragon Bone Wastes. She attacked me and those who had joined my search for her when we approached. I did not allow my companions to attack, and removed the mask that I wear to conceal the scar left on my face by dragon's fire in the Frostback Mountains. When she looked upon the scar, I saw Morrigan, for the first time, exhibit something that resembled shock, perhaps even fear. And yet, I cannot deny that I felt some semblance of joy and profound relief at seeing her again, knowing that she **knew** me...who I was. _

_I lied to those who insisted on joining me in my search for her. They never saw my full face, and rarely heard my voice. But Morrigan knew me. She knew me and it did not take long for her to realize that I had been brought back from the other side of eternity. Do you remember my eyes, Leliana?_

_They were scarred, broken, speaking of an intimacy with mortality that few have ever known or understood. They are still scarred but...but not so gently as they once were. They do not whisper of knowing death, now. They **scream** of it. To look at my own reflection is to gaze into the face and eyes of the damned. I am very much changed...even changed beneath the skin, where none can see. But my heart has not altered. My mind has not altered. I still love you...I have loved you from the moment I opened these damned eyes and once again witnessed the waking world. _

_And yet...this is not a letter of love._

_Morrigan told me what I believe is the truth of the world. That it is **Flemeth** who is the true danger in Thedas. I have no doubts that she gave to me the truth, but I was able to ask nothing else of her before she faded into the strange mirror that stood alone in a cave in the center of the wastes. I do not know, as of yet, if I have made a grave mistake, but I...I did what I have always done, and sought the answer. I followed Morrigan and stepped into the mirror. _


	2. Tremors of Change

**City of Kirkwall  
Kathyra**

     Time had its way of creeping by, slow, like blood through the veins of a hypothermic patient. It had been but a fortnight, but even that seemed too long. I had seen my world altered in the course of a single second, a simple action, and the fewest of words. If change could move so swift, it did not seem fair that this change take my beloved from me for so long. I knew better than to be a hot-blooded, lovelorn fool, but that did not stop me fro missing the one who held the confidences of my heart. It did not stop me from busying myself to distract me from her absence. 

     I continued my sketching on the rough parchment, compiling a guide for healers, per Leliana's suggestion. I included images of the anatomy of humans, elves, and dwarves, the three races to whom I had ministered. Such volumes existed in Thedas, but they were exceedingly difficult to find, and most often were owned by the very wealthy, who often struggled to relinquish so valuable items, regardless of the importance of the knowledge. I continued my sketch of the human heart, my fingertips trembling as I remembered holding one in my hand not so long ago, attempting to massage life back into it...failing. 

      _Another mage lost..._ I frowned, setting aside my charcoal and lifting a glass of wine to my lips.  _Another Harrowing "gone wrong." It seems that many Harrowings go wrong in the Gallows of Kirkwall. Thank the Maker that Kestrel has a messenger bird, and that she found a way for us to enter without being seen. We have saved the lives of five good men and women thus far, but it seems it is not enough._

     My frown deepened and I set the wine aside. I had met Knight Commander Meredith once, in a life lived before. Even as a knight-lieutenant, she had been an intractable fanatic. It seemed the greater power and higher rank did not serve to curb her initiative, but speeded and strengthened it. We did what we could to save the innocents ravaged by the grip of her iron gauntlet, but it seemed as though we could not do enough. Kirkwall was a body, and the rogue mages going to extreme lengths for freedom, and the templars led by a madwoman were bleeding her dry.

     When we came here under orders from Divine Beatrix, to keep an eye on the unrest, and to place two agents in the Gallows itself, we had not known the depths of horror that we would witness. We bought a clinic in Lowtown. It had functioned as such earlier on, but those who owned it were overcome by avarice, taking advantage of the refugees until the under-dwellers of the city turned against the proprietors, slaughtering them. The building had been repossessed by the city on the viscount's orders, and Leliana purchased it. 

     The injured and ill of Kirkwall came to use, their lips often loosened by panic, fear, and pain. We discovered a great deal of information through such avenues. I was grateful that I remained able to ply my trade as a physician, to heal the sick and succor the injured. Even years removed, I owed a debt to my beloved Giselle...a debt that pressed more heavily on me because I permitted my heart to heal and allowed myself to take another lover. 

      _A lover that has been gone these two weeks. I sorely miss her, though I know she was ordered to return to Val Royeaux alone. For what purpose, I cannot say. All I know is that I am worried about how this mission might continue under the leadership of the new Divine. Justinia the Fifth, once known as Revered Mother Dorothea._

     i reached for the wine again, attempting to quell the bitterness rising in my chest and tightening around my throat. I had lost many things to Mother Dorothea. She was not always the woman of wisdom, supreme kindness, and empathy. Events took place that changed her, and she changed her life, seeking redemption and forgiveness, but there had been a time when...there had been a time. 

      _That time is over now,_ I finished my remaining wine and filled the goblet again, returning to my charcoal and sketch.  _It is long past time to forgive. Old wounds will always ache, but they need never be torn open, for then infection can set in, and kill._

     I heaved a sigh as I continued to shade the powerful muscles of the heart, remembering with bittersweet fondness the times I had pored over sketches such as these, Giselle standing over my shoulder and asking questions in her gentle, sunrise voice. My half-elven physician still held my soul, but another held my heart in the waking world. My Leliana. The woman my sister almost killed, placed in prison, and subjected to horrific torture for fourteen days. The woman who had staggered into the Chantry clinic, begging for sanctuary and her life. The woman I stitched together and abandoned. At that time, I was too afraid. Afraid to face aiding another through a difficult healing because my own heart had been torn to shreds. 

     Leliana knew all of that, now. It had taken me a great deal of time to gather the courage to tell her the litany of my failures and crimes against her. She continued to be an unceasing source of awe and wonderment. Without a word, she took me into her arms, pressed a gentle kiss to my lips, and thanked me for the life I had given her. I did not know how she could thank me for such a thing, for, in my mind, she had endured more horrors since leaving the life of a bard than she knew while in that life. However, I could not know the innermost depths of her soul, because it did not belong to me. 

      _Her warden carries the other half of her soul in the land of the dead, as Giselle carries mine. But our hearts we have given to each other, to protect and to cherish, to remind ourselves that passion is something that exists in spite of pain and tragedies that have stolen a half of a soul from the both of us._

     A somber smile quirked my lips and I bent over the table, continuing to outline and map the heart with charcoal on parchment. A slow ache built in my neck, and my wrist began to burn from the arduous task of precision detailing. Absorbed in my task, I barely noticed when the wooden bench beneath me creaked and strong, gentle arms wrapped around my waist. I felt the softness of hair on my shoulder and caught a glimpse of fiery tresses in my peripheral vision before the scent of salt air and Andraste's Grace washed over me. 

     I dropped the charcoal and turned, taking Leliana in a fierce embrace. I held her tight for a long moment, my hands roving over her back, feeling the tension in her muscles and the delicate power of her body. I buried my forehead between her neck and shoulder, listening to her breathing, my lips tasting the salt on her pale, perfect skin. We remained like that for quite some time, and I could feel a change in her. I could feel that her return from Val Royeaux brought with it news, and not simply the news of a new Divine, but of something that would, perhaps, change the world. 

     I pulled out of the embrace and, before she could speak, captured her lips in a gentle kiss. Her skin was chapped from the sea travel, but it tasted as sweet to me as honey on the comb. A soft, contented sigh left her lips and my body pulsed in response to the gentle sound. Her lips parted the slightest bit, allowing my tongue entrance to her mouth, and we enjoyed the intimate duel and dance for as long as she allowed. I knew that, in spite of my happiness and relief at her return, nothing would pass between us this night but slumber in each other's arms. Perhaps not even that, depending on the change that had been wrought. 

     Our kiss ended and I moved away, tucking her tousled hair behind her ears, cupping her cheeks between my hands, smiling into her tired, sea blue eyes. We would both need to rest, and soon, but first there were things she needed to tell me. We had no secrets between us, and could read the other with ease, establishing a trust that many who loved struggled for years to attain. 

     "Welcome back, my love." I breathed, not welcoming her 'home', just as she never welcomed me home. We both knew that our homes rested nowhere in Thedas. They lay in the land of the dead, with the other halves of our souls. "What has changed?"

     The smile that spread across her features made my heart race, but I could see the apprehension behind it and knew that her smile was for me, not because of what transpired. 

     "Justinia, once Dorothea, now sits on the Sunburst Throne." Leliana informed me of what I already knew, what every Seeker and templar already knew. "And the Left Hand of Divine Beatrix was tried, sentenced, and executed for the embezzlement of the Chantry's charitable coffers, and of using the Chantry to launder gold gained by illegal lyrium trafficking."

     My brow creased in confusion. "This was on Dorothea's orders, I presume?" I asked, for I did not believe I could ever think of Dorothea has the Divine, nor call her "Most Holy", for the word holy meant 'set apart' and I knew too much of Dorothea's indulgences and human foibles, even if they were in the past, to accord her such a title. 

     Leliana shook her head in the negative, surprising me. "No. The order came from Lord Seeker Lucius, who had been investigating the Left Hand without Beatrix's knowledge or approval. However, he had substantial evidence and announced it tactlessly before Most Holy and the Nine. Justinia is scrambling to mitigate the scandal."

     "Even the highest echelon of power needs its own checks and balances." I agreed. "Even the Divine herself must confer with the Nine in times of controversy."

     Leliana nodded, though I spoke things we both already knew. "I am afraid that Justinia did not confer with the Nine on the decision that followed, for many of them were not well pleased."

     "Oh?" I asked, sitting up straighter, intrigued by the edges of... _fear?_...in my lover's tone. "What has happened, Leliana?"

     "Most Holy has already chosen her left and right hands." Leliana's tone lowered, and it was not exhaustion that darkened her voice, but trepidation.

     "That is...highly unusual." I said, when it became clear that she struggled to continue. "Many of them wait years, vetting people for those positions, until explicit trust exists between them and the ones they choose."

     Leliana nodded. "I know." She replied. "Which is why many were not pleased. Justinia requested that Cassandra Pentaghast remain as the Right Hand."

     "A sensible choice." I attempted to suss out why Leliana had become to reluctant to speak, and I thought perhaps it might be that Cassandra retained her position, even though she served a new, and very different Divine.

     Leliana and Cassandra did not meet under good circumstances, nor had their relationship flourished by any means. Cassandra was proud, intractable, imperious, and hot-tempered. She was used to others following her orders without question, and Leliana had never been the sort to take such a thing lying down. They came to blows many times over the last few years, though their altercations had become much fewer and further between. I knew Cassandra well; I could tell that the woman had gentled. She had grown slower to anger, more willing to listen, and she had begun to subjugate her pride and mitigate her imperious nature. 

     Cassandra made great strides an I applauded the change of heart I witnessed in her the few times we'd seen one another since Divine Beatrix appointed myself, Leliana, Kestrel Ariyah, and Rylie Camerloch as a shadow squad to investigate the stirrings of unrest in Kirkwall. However, the Nevarran's temper still burned volcano hot and, at times, she still seemed willing to sacrifice lives and let means justify ends. However, there was no woman more loyal and dedicated to the Chantry and her Order than Cassandra Pentaghast. If Dorothea wanted a true and faithful heart as her right hand, she had made the best decision.

     "I agree." Leliana nodded. "But I am not so certain of her second appointment." She paused, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. "Kathyra, my darling...I...I have been named the Left Hand of the Divine Justinia."

     My lips parted, but they had no speech, and gooseflesh rose on my arms as all the blood drained from my face.

      


	3. Defining Choices

**Leliana**

     I watched Kathyra's face pale, as I had known it would when I told her what transpired in Val Royeaux. As much as I wanted to restore color to her cheeks and light to her viridian gaze, I could not unspeak the words. I could not undo the vows that I took before Divine Justinia. To be her Left Hand, to serve immediately before the Sunburst Throne. I did not know much of what would be expected of me, but it was an immense sacrifice. That much I did know. Kathyra knew. She would say that I, in accepting the appointment, sacrificed too much...but...but I had learned, long ago, from a powerful heart and strong, loving arms, that no sacrifice was  _too much_ , if it was a sacrifice made in love.

     "You accepted." Kathyra said, once again a statement, not a question, because she knew me too well. 

     "I owe Dorothea my life." I spread my hands before my lover, knowing that her initial hurt and shock would pass, and that she would accept this. "Everything that I have been given, every good thing that has transpired in my life, came about because of her kindness and wisdom. I know that..."

     "That woman is a viper." Kathyra interrupted, running her hands through her ash-blonde hair, leaving sooty streaks of charcoal. "She changed because of what happened to you, because of what you had to endure because of her mistakes. I knew her before that change, Leliana. I know the woman she is at the core of her character. She plays the Game, and  _well_. I am afraid that you will be used; that you will be  _hurt_."

     "Of course I will be hurt." I countered, having known that for truth the moment I met Justinia's weathered blue eyes, the moment she took me into her embrace before walking before the assembled powers of Thedas to become the Maker's voice on earth. "But I owe her my life."

     Kathyra frowned. "I respect your choice, Leliana, and I know that you will honor the oaths you have made, because you can do nothing else. It is your name and your honor and I will do my utmost to help you uphold that, but I will not deny that I am worried for you. Does she know...does she know the truth of who you are?"

     A wash of awareness broke through my exhaustion as Kathyra broached a subject we did not often discuss. Though the both of us knew the truth, it was not something we spoke of, so that we might distance ourselves from the fear of the future, the terror of the unknown, and the knowledge that while the world was changing, I stood at its epicenter. I had stood in the presence of the maker, and heard her plans for the world. I'd listened to her speak of the great love she bore for Thedas, of the failure of Andraste to understand the truth of a love divine and without condition. 

      _If I were to tell the world the truth, that the maker turned her gaze from us because **Andraste** failed, not mankind, the Chantry would lose its power, the mages would riot, and chaos would ensue. There are some secrets that still demand their keeping. _

     "Dorothea does not know of the visions from my lips." I told Kathyra. "But that does not mean that she does not have this knowledge from another source. Cassandra might have informed her, or someone else who knew me from long ago."

     "Do you believe that anyone from the warden's party would inform Justinia in order to gain favor from the Sunburst Throne?" Kathyra inquired, piercing to the heart of the matter as she often did. 

     "Alistair would never." I said, staunch in my belief of him. He was a good man and had been a just and merciful king these many years. "Neither would Zevran. Wynne would never reveal that secret, even if she still lived. The sole person who might ever speak of it is Morrigan, and she would want nothing to do with the Chantry."

     Kathyra nodded, trusting my word, though she had never met those I had known and traveled with during the Blight. I lowered my head, feigning exhaustion, though in truth it was to keep Kathyra from seeing the truth I could not disguise, the knowledge that...

     "You've had another vision." Kathyra moved closer, reaching out her hand, taking mine and holding it fast. I remained resolute in my avoidance of her gaze, but I knew that I would tell her. I told her everything. I trusted her. I loved her. 

     After a long moment, I looked into her deep green eyes, remembering when I gazed into eyes of another color, a silver-blue scarred by pain and by looking into the realm beyond life too many times. The signet ring that I wore against my breast burned with the memory, with the disquiet sense I had held for sometime that  _something_ had happened. Something concerning the lover I left in the land of the dead, who promised to wait for me there. 

      _Salem, do you hear me? Are you somehow watching me from beyond the Veil? You come to me in dreams and I feel your scarred hands upon my skin and your lips speak prophecies and proclamations of love and I fall beneath your touch. Your ring burns and pulses against my skin like a living thing and it terrifies me, for I know you perished. You gave your life to your calling._

     "I have." I answered my lover in the waking world, the woman who protected a decimated heart with her own. "I witnessed a dark heart, fissured through with altruism turned to desperation. The heart began to crack beneath the earth and it ruptured outwards, screaming upward into the heavens, piercing the sky...piercing heaven itself."

     I shuddered at the memory of the vision, of the pain that had ripped through my skull and crashed me to my knees as the images assaulted in relentless waves. There had been more visions, and even though I had spoken with the Maker, even though I stood face to face with a god, they were no easier to bear than first they had been.

     Kathyra's features softened with the great compassion that defined her character, that colored her life and made her the woman I found myself able to love. She rose from her seat and before I knew it, she had seated herself behind me, drawing me into her arms and cradling my head against her shoulder. Her lips pressed gentle kisses against my temple. 

     "We shall endure our lives as they change, and neither anticipate nor dread those changes." She whispered as she combed her fingers through my hair in a soothing motion. "I know that you have lived a life of secrets before, Leliana, but becoming the Left Hand is very different. Do you understand these differences?"

     I shook my head, admitting my lack of knowledge. Much was known of Cassandra Pentaghast, the Hero of Orlais, the Savior of Val Royeaux, and, now, the Right Hand of two Divines--an unheard-of honor. But the Left Hand had been a man whose name I did not know, whose face I had never seen nor heard described in all my travels. I watched him die, beheaded before Justinia and the Nine, and I felt nothing. 

     "I can admit my ignorance." I whispered, comforted by the touch of her capable, life-saving hands, such a different touch from the warrior who had stolen my heart out from the darkness.

     "Your life is no longer your own, Leliana." Kathyra whispered, and her voice rang low, like a death knell keening in the black of night. "You belong to the Chantry, but even more than the Chantry, you belong to Justinia the fifth. The Divine is called Most Holy for a reason. She is not able to do anything surreptitious, anything hidden, anything that does not benefit and befit her station. The purpose of the Right Hand is to show the might of the Chantry, the champion of Thedas, the wisdom of the Divine in the body of a powerful warrior. The Left Hand is the bloodied hand: the hand that murders, the soul that enacts and creates the darkness that those, lesser in stature in this world, cannot know resides in the mind of Most Holy. You will be a bard again, Leliana. Not a Seeker, not a spy, but a player of the Game once more. Do you understand what I am saying?"

     I turned to look into Kathyra's eyes, wondering at the great pain I saw in them. "Say it to me without gentleness, Kathyra." I told her, forgiving her for the way in which she knew she would hurt me. 

     Kathyra sighed and gathered her courage. "You have chosen to undo everything that your love for Salem allowed you to become." She spoke, and the truth inside her words became a dagger that slipped between my ribs and sank into my heart. 'You are going to fade into the dark again, and you are going to do it for the Maker's cause and to bring peace to the world. But a life in the light is something you will no longer be able to have, or find, again."

      She spoke the words that had been whispering in my heart and in my mind as I returned to Kirkwall, to my lover and to the mission Beatrix began that Justinia urged me to continue. However, it was one thing to speak such words to myself, and another to hear them from my lover's lips. I met her verdant eyes, remembering that, once, I had loved her sister. I had lived with these same eyes in the darkness that would come to swallow me again...because I allowed it entrance and ability to do so.

      _But I had no choice. I owe Dorothea my life. She helped me get well again. She sent me to Ferelden for my safety, and lied to the chevaliers when they came searching for me. I will be her left hand, for, once, she entered the darkness for my sake._

     "I know." I breathed, and a slight grin pulled upwards at Kathyra's lips.

     "Then I desire you to know that I will love you through and despite whatever it is you must do next." Kathyra promised, and she had never before broken her word to me. "Now, the moon has risen, the night is old, and you should rest. Go on to bed; I will join you in a moment."

     "As you say." I offered her a tired smile, got to my feet, and trudged up the stairs to the small apartment above the clinic where we resided, but did not call home. 

     I set my satchel down on the floor, walked to the bed, and sat down. For a long moment, I stared through the window, looking out onto the moon, thinking of all the important moments of my life that the moon bore witness to. This would be but one more. Kathyra's words resonated with me, for the told me the truth I had known from the moment I swore my vows. I would return to the Game. I would return to the shadows that had given me birth. And in my life...in my life there was one thing that always and ever remained untouched by the darkness. 

     I reached up and removed my necklace, taking the ring it held and holding it up to the moonlight. I fell into the engraved image of the rampant mabari, the sigil of House Cousland. The sigil of honor, loyalty, and peace. I had given my oath to Divine Justinia. I had given my oath to forego honor in place of success, to become unrest in order to bring about the Maker's will. I had sworn my loyalty to another. 

     "I do not know why your ring burns against my breast." I spoke to Salem, as I had many times since her death. "But I do know that I have made another vow, and that I will honor it, for I am a Cousland still, and my word is my bond...the one thing I possess that is of any value. However, my love, for the sake of the light, I am going to the darkness. If you are watching, I pray that you forgive me."

     A wooden box lay on the windowsill. It held the retired tools of my trade; the garrote that had become brittle, the dwarven-craft false blade that brought down Bann Esmerelle in Amaranthine. It held the poisons that had been stored so long they were no longer effective, and the dagger with which I had made my first kill in the dark. I lifted the key that lay beside the box and unlocked it, lifting the top, tracing the outlines of the contents and feeling a great burden come to rest in my heart. 

     I lifted the signet ring, my marriage ring, to my lips. I kissed the cold metal, remembering the taste of Salem's lips, metal and sweat, copper and salt. I closed my eyes and bowed my head over the ring, accepting the new oath I had made. It took all of my strength to place the ring in the box, but I did. Then, I closed the lid, inserted the key, and locked the ring away with the rest of my past. 

      _Rest well, Salem. My soul is yours still, but this life is mine, and I must live it. I must return to the dark, and I cannot carry your light there with me. If you can see this, please know that I love you no less, that I honor you no less, and that you are still my encompassing dream, and my peace._

     "Maker, forgive me." I whispered a prayer. "Forgive me and guide me now."


	4. Rebellion Stirred Below

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I would like to thank and give credit to my friend and fellow author, Grace Kay. She allowed me to use her headcanon for the punishment of apostate mages (see her fic "Forbidden Magic", and its sequels), and incorporate it into my own story. I darkened it up a little bit for Kirkwall, but wanted to give her credit for the original idea. Thanks, Grace!

**The Gallows** **  
** **Rylie Camerloch**

 

     The scar across my chest ached like fury, and that never boded well. I stood on the walls of the Gallows, looking out to the sky. The deep black began to lighten. The sun would rise in a candlemark or so. I did not know why, but for some reason, disquiet filled my heart. The gentle wind held a bladed edge to it, carrying whispers, carrying a smell like the sea, but also metallic and cold. I knew that scent. Blood. 

      _Only in Kirkwall can the wind smell like blood. Too much of it has been shed here._

     I frowned, turning my gaze to the churning waters below. I didn't want to look back at the towers, or think of the mages locked inside their rooms, unable to move until the sun rose. I didn't want to think about the fact that Knight Commander Meredith had issued an order that no one in the city knew.

      _From sunset to sunrise, any mage seen without written permission and a templar escort is to be killed on sight...even in the Gallows._

     My frown deepened and I began to worry, absently rubbing the scar that ran from my hipbone to my shoulder and between my breasts. The wound nearly killed me, years ago, when an abomination lashed out at me with a strange, eviscerating magic. If it hadn't been for Leliana and Kestrel, I would have died. I was still alive, but the wound hadn't healed well, and Kathyra suspected it was so because of the magic that made it. In time, I learned to trust that, when the scar ached and burned, something dark loomed on the horizon. 

     The first time it happened was when I reported to the Gallows with Kestrel as my prisoner, a falsehood to begin my ingratiation with Knight Commander Meredith. I hadn't known what they would do to my lover...I still asked for her forgiveness, even though Kestrel insisted I wasn't at fault. I still felt to blame, because I hadn't stopped them. I couldn't have without compromising our mission. 

     I hadn't stopped them from wrenching her out of my grasp and cutting her clothes from her body, leaving her naked and vulnerable. I hadn't stopped them from holding her down and taking a straight-razor to her beautiful, thick black hair. They shaved it down to her scalp, and she didn't make a sound. She didn't struggle when they ordered  _me_ to hold her down. Then, with my hands keeping her prisoner, they marked her forever as an escaped apostate. They tattooed her face with red ink, the color used by the Kirkwall Circle. They shoved needles around her eyes and eyebrows, creating a delicate, unique design...but they hadn't stopped there. They tattooed her chin, piercing her lips with the needles simply to cause pain. They even marked the delicate line of her throat with ink. It was torture, but she did not cry out. She didn't even whimper. 

     After that they dragged her, naked and in pain, to the Harrowing chamber. They forced her into the Fade to confront a demon. They had no way of knowing that she'd never been in a Circle, that she had known but a year's tutelage in magic from another apostate mage. They also had no knowledge that she had been a templar, that she could use both magic  _and_ the skills given to use by the lyrium we drank and the techniques we were taught. 

     I feared for her life, but she prevailed. She defeated the demon, but when she came back from the Fade, hours after entry, she was...she was not well. The other templars threw her into my arms and gave me the key to her lodging. She managed to keep her feet until we left their presence, but collapsed in my arms the moment the door closed, trembling and weeping in quiet agony. I hefted her onto my back and carried her to her room, settling her on the small, hard mattress that passed for a bed. I kept watch over her and fear stole over me as she began to burn with fever. Breathing became a struggle; her nose began to bleed and would not cease and when she coughed, blood flecked her lips.

     I continued rubbing my aching scar, locked in the memory of that night. I shattered protocol and abandoned my lover and the Gallows, running through the foreign streets of Kirkwall until I found the clinic. I'd all but broken down the door, screaming for Kathyra and Leliana. They stole into the Gallows, unseen by anyone, reminding me of and making me grateful for their bardic pasts. Kathyra saved Kestrel's life, helped her breathe again, stopped the bleeding, and broke the fever. After Kestrel slipped into exhausted sleep, Kathyra took me aside and told me something that made me burn with wrath hot enough to scour the heavens; that made me want to tear our Meredith's throat with my own hands. 

     The ink of the forced tattoo also contained an acid and venom, meant to burn through the deeper layers of skin, enter the blood, and kill. They forced Kestrel into a Harrowing after poisoning her, and she was  _not_ the first. She was supposed to die in such a way that no one would suspect the templars or the Knight Commander. Many mages did not survive their Harrowing, and Meredith could keep her hands clean. We had yet to hear from the Divine on the report of the Kirkwall not simply marking apostates, but attempting to murder them. Kestrel and I did what we could to save them, but were not often successful. Meredith's kill order usually won the day, and innocent mages died because they dreamed of being free. 

     I wanted no part in this, but I had to play one. In secret, I compiled a list of Meredith's orders, and kept the names of the templars who went much too far. There were so many of them here. I did not know what had turned them from good men and women into sadists, fond of torture, prone to entrapping mages simply to punish them...but there were many. So many. And those that were good, that  _could_ be trusted, seemed to be willfully ignorant and unwilling to report the atrocities that happened within the walls of the Gallows. 

     I'd been an idealist when I joined the Order. I wanted to protect the weak and champion the just and all the other shite they shoved down our throats in training. I thought it was real, was truth, was established. But, like so many things, it was a beautiful veneer and the years in Kirkwall, watching the woman I loved suffer because she was born with a gift in her blood, tarnished that veneer and eroded it away. I no longer believed that the Order fought for and abided by tenets they taught us. But  _I_ still did. 

     I'd risked my life fighting for the mages, healing the apostates who were brought in, branded, and poisoned. Kestrel did the same, and we had gained a few allies and friends within the walls. Kestrel worked closely and shared quarters with Bethany Hawke, whose sister Ryker had taken Kirkwall by storm and become a near legend in her own right. Bethany was the sole mage that knew of the love affair between a mage and templar. A love that began long before Kirkwall, and continued in spite of the fact that we were barely allowed to speak to each other...that I had been unable to touch her in  _months_. 

      _I miss you..._

     My thoughts drifted into the wind and I breathed deep, attempting to console myself. Instead of the scent of salt and blood on the breeze, I smelled smoke. I looked across the canal that divided the Gallows from the city proper and frowned as I saw smoke rising and flickers of orange and red that had nothing to do with the approaching sunrise. The docks of Kirkwall were burning. 

     "Wake the mages!" I started and turned towards the voice booming in the courtyard. Knight Captain Cullen had given the order and he stood in full armor, his sword drawn. "Form squads! Five templars, three mages, and get into the city! The qunari are attacking!"

     I started running, stumbling down the stairs and into the courtyard, the scar across my chest blazing like the fires consuming Kirkwall. For patrol, I wore nothing but a hardened leather cuirass and the tabard emblazoned with the flaming sword of the Order. My scabbard struck my thigh as I rain to the armory.

     "Sergeant Camerloch!" Knight-Captain Cullen called and I stopped, turning to face him. "There's a squad already formed and down by the boats. They require a fifth templar. That's you. Go!"

     I bit my lip, but changed direction. I had wanted to find Kestrel, to make certain that we could at least be together in the chaos. The qunari had done nothing in Kirkwall but refuse to leave for years. Now they were attacking? Something must have happened, but I did not have that information. As usual, for the templars of Kirkwall, we were told to kill, and given no reason as to why. 


	5. Once More Into the Fray

** City of Kirkwall ** **  
** **Leliana**

     The streets seemed to bleed fire. The cloying stench of smoke filled the air and chaos reigned. Kathyra and I ran through the grey haze of sunrise, armed to the teeth, our faces splattered with the blood of our enemies. There were so many questions here, and they did not have answers. The qunari had left the city very much alone, doing nothing more inflammatory than harboring those who had gone to them and chosen to follow the Qun. 

      _However, if I am not mistaken,_ I lifted my bow, the weapon that had been carried by Eleanor Cousland, a weapon that only one bearing the Cousland name could wield, and nocked an arrow. I pulled back on the string and let the arrow fly, taking a qunari warrior in the throat before his blade crashed down on the woman he pursued.  _The viscount's son, Seamus, converted to the Qun. Kathyra's last report told me she overheard in The Hanged Man that Seamus was murdered not long ago. Varric and Isabela were speaking of it...Ryker Hawke found his body and was framed for his murder by that sniveling harpy Mother Petrice._

     A hand landed on my shoulder, yanking me backwards as a burning beam fell from above and crashed into the street. I landed hard on the ground, scrabbling backwards as a wave of heat washed over me. I looked up to see Kathyra bent double, catching her breath. We had perhaps slept for two candlemarks when the scent of smoke roused us and the horns of the City Guard began to blow a warning call. Without thought, we had donned armor and weapons, Kathyra carrying her physician's pack as well as her sword and bow. 

     Already, the streets were stained with blood. The qunari were not simply attacking those guilty of doing wrong. They appeared to be fighting a holy war, bent on extinguishing the iniquities of the troubled city of Kirkwall. There was no sign of Ryker Hawke and her usual compatriots, but Kathyra and I had seen squads of templars and mages fighting against the qunari. I sent prayers to the Maker for the safety of Kestrel and Rylie. Save for those who might have chanced across the Tal Vashoth on the Wounded Coast, those like Ryker Hawke and Guard Captain Aveline, there were no warriors here who had fought against the qunari. 

      _They have superior strength, but, in spite of their size and the balance required to compensate for the weight of their horns, they are remarkably dexterous. The large sword carried by the Sten are deceitful. One will think they have time to calculate their opponent's strike, and be dead before they can dodge._

     Even Zevran and I had been defeated several times when we sparred with Sten during the Blight. In spite of the fact that only Alastair, Salem, and Oghren could even  _lift_ Asala, Sten could wield the massive blade with as much ease and dexterity as I wielded my daggers. The Antivan Crow and I moved quickly and read our opponent's body language, but even we had trouble predicting Sten's attacks. These qunari had been all but imprisoned here in Kirkwall. Now, they were allowed to unleash their anger, and supplement it with their incredible skill. 

     "Over here!" A man shouted, his voice rising above the clash of weapons and the screams of the fearful. "We need help! Please! Can anyone hear me!?"

     I turned to Kathyra. There were two places that we needed to be, two entities in this city that required our protection. The qunari would wage their war on two fronts. They would attack the Chantry, who defied their Qun, and they would attack the viscount, whose laws upheld the Chantry. But I saw the urgency in my physician's eyes, and realized that she could not be as ruthless in her priorities as I. That her compassion would rule her, even in the midst of battle. 

      _I will not leave her unprotected. I will not lose someone else that I love. I will not argue. Time is of the essence._

     I nodded to my lover and we ran through the alley, towards the man who had not stopped bellowing for help. He was clad in the armor of the city guard, sword drawn, held in a shaking hand as he protected the body of his fallen comrade. Kathyra slung her physician's pack off of her back and knelt beside the fallen man...a man I recognized. Guardsman Donnic, the man betrothed to Kirkwall's Guard Captain, Aveline Vallen. 

     Another guardsman knelt beside Kathyra and my physician began to murmur orders as she opened her bag. 

     "What happened here?" I asked the standing guardsman, leaving Kathyra to the work she did best. The saving of lives. 

     "Captain Vallen and the Hawke went to talk to the Arishok." The man spoke, his voice hard but his eyes afraid. "Known murderers had taken refuge with those horned monsters. Said they converted." He spat on the ground. "Vallen wanted them back, for trial, for punishment, for  _justice_. The Arishok wouldn't give them up."

     "Aveline..." Donnic rasped, "...did not...take it so well."

     "Don't speak." Kathyra murmured as she applied a poultice to the horrific gash leading from Donnic's neck, across his shoulder, and down his arm. The skin gaped open and I could see the edges of lacerated muscle. She looked to the man helping her. "Give him some water, if you have any. He's lost too much blood."

     "Words were exchanged, then the qunari started throwing spears." The guardsman informed me. "Then they moved into the city, killing everyone they saw. Some sort of Qun blessed massacre I suppose."

     "Maker's blood-soaked breath." I hissed. 

     The situation was far worse than I thought, exacerbated by the murder of Seamus, a qunari convert, and now a disagreement with the city guard. I wished that I could speak to Ryker Hawke. I had known her and her family when they and I lived in Lothering. She was the breadwinner of her family, doing anything that she could, most often hard manual labor in the fields, until she and her brother joined King Cailan's army and marched against the darkspawn. They fled after the massacre in Ostager, and the family had made a name for themselves in Kirkwall. 

     I knew Ryker would be in the thick of this, for while we influenced Kirkwall from the shadows, she led it from the front. And it sorely needed a leader now. If they qunari were to be vanquished, there were three people who could take Kirkwall back and restore order. The Viscount, should he survive, Ryker Hawke...and Knight Commander Meredith. 

      _No!_ Even the thought of the woman repulsed me.  _That bitch is a murderer dressed in the clothing of the righteous. If she comes into yet more power, then Kirkwall...Kirkwall is doomed._

     "Leliana, they're coming!" Kathyra's voice shattered my thoughts and I looked up as eight qunari flooded into the alley where we had taken refuge. The formation changed when they saw us, four remaining back, nocking arrows against their bowstrings. Four rushed at us. 

     "Kathyra, we need you!" I screamed over the battle cry of the qunari. 

     My physician's eyes flared, green and fiery. "If I leave him now, he'll  _die_!"

     For most, that would not be an answer, but I knew Kathyra well. She would not abandon her patient, not even to ensure her own life. She was trusting me to protect her, and I would honor that trust. Inasmuch as we  _needed_ to be elsewhere, inasmuch as the lives we defended might be considered less valuable than our own...this was who we were. For Kathyra, this sacrifice was natural. For me...I had learned it from the best of teachers. 

     The qunari were almost upon us. I and the two guardsmen in Donnic's squad stood at the ready. We were outnumbered and outmatched, but we would fight to the death. I threw my bow and quiver beside Kathyra and drew my daggers. I would rush them, get inside their guard, where their longswords were of no use. 

     "On my command." I ordered the two guardsmen, whispering a prayer for strength. I gained my balance, established my center, and gripped my weapons tight. "Attack!"


	6. A Stranger's Grace

Kathyra

     I worked as though in a dream state, everything smooth, everything streamlined. My hands did not shake and my heart did not waver as I worked to save the life of a good, honest man. Donnic lay propped up against a wall, his eyes fixed on my face, not my hands, in a show of trust that kept me centered and sane while a skirmish raged behind me. I continued wrapping herbs into bandages, goldenrod, comfrey, shepherd's purse, and cayenne. I placed the poultices over his wounds and wrapped them tightly. If his breathing was all right, then controlling the bleeding was the most important thing. 

     Donnic's wounds needed stitching, but we did not have the time, nor were we in the right place. Kirkwall was a filthy city even when clean; I could not in good conscience stitch his wounds, knowing that it would seal irritants beneath the skin and cause an infection. I pressed the final poultice over the gash, admiring the guardsman's inner strength. His eyes were filled with pain, but he did not allow it to rule him. I had seen that look in a soldier's eyes before...the look of a soul that would not give in or be triumphed over because love dwelt therein. 

     I pulled a knife from my belt as the sounds of battle drew closer. I could hear Leliana shouting orders, attempting to make it so that three humans might defeat eight qunari. They were long odds, and though I did not consider myself a betting woman, I would always place my gold and my trust in Leliana. In her tender, quiet way, she adopted the mantra of the Hero of Ferelden, a woman who had never known defeat. 

      _She will not lose._ I pursed my lips into a thin line as I held a canteen to Donnic's lips and forced him to drink.  _She **must** not lose. _

     I reached into my pack and withdrew a roll of linen. I would bind the wound one last time, and have the other guardsmen evacuate him back to a safe place. Donnic would  _not_ die this day, not if I could stand between him and death. I used the knife I'd drawn to cut away the stained material of his shirt, then took his arm at the elbow and wrapped the bandaging around it, receiving nothing but a chuffing exhalation and a wince. 

     I met his eyes, making certain that they were clear, not glazed with shock. My brows furrowed as I saw alarm in his eyes and his lips worked back and forth, his chest heaving as he attempted to gather the breath to speak. His other arm lifted, shaking, but he extended a finger, pointing at something, his frantic gaze beseeching me to look. I turned my eyes from his wounds in time to see a qunari archer draw back his bow. One of the guardsmen lay on the ground, an arrow in his throat. The other guardsman and Leliana were embattled against the remaining qunari. I assessed the situation and reached for my sword. The moment the archer loosed his arrow, it would take Leliana in the back and pierce her heart. 

     "Leliana!" I screamed, but she did not listen or could not hear me over the din of battle. 

      _Not **this** day. I will  **not** fail to protect her!_

     I swore my oath in silence and rose, my sword in hand, praying that the Maker would be merciful to us all. I got to my feet, but it was too late. The qunari loosed his arrow. My heart fell into my stomach and I ran towards Leliana. My legs burned and my breath ached, but I knew I would be too late. I could not outrun the arrow. I could not stop it. 

     I tripped over a piece of rubble and fell to my knees, reaching out for Leliana, screaming her name again in warning. Out from the alley, another figure appeared, armed but not armored. The arrow meant for my lover pierced the stranger in the side and I struggled to rise to my feet, encumbered by the chainmail and hard leather armor I wore. The unarmored stranger skidded to their knees, grasping at the arrow, and I rushed to them, worried. Where they were struck...a vital organ could have been pierced with ease. 

     Leliana finished her opponent with a vicious slash of her blades and the qunari fell. The stranger looked to Leliana, then turned their head. In the half-light of morning I could see the mask that covered their face, leaving just their eyes, forehead, and hair visible. Leliana was doubled over, catching her breath, but she was still standing, still breathing. I moved towards the stranger when Donnic rasped out something that sounded like a warning.

     An arrow whipped through my hair and I dropped to the ground, stunned as I saw the stranger rise to their feet and grab the back of Leliana's cuirass. They stepped forward while pulling my lover against them and my lips parted in shock when I saw another arrow bury itself in the stranger's back. A ragged cry pierced the air, then the stranger shoved Leliana forward. My lover fell to her knees and the masked stranger turned, running towards the qunari archers...somehow.

     "Wait!" I cried, but the stranger did not listen. I would have run to them, but Leliana had not risen from her knees, and panic sheared through me.

     I ran to Leliana, knelt down before her and lifted her head. She held her hand to her neck, bright ribbons of blood flowing between her fingers.

     "Leli…"

     "I'm all right." she assured me. "It's not bad." I reached up to remove her hand but she pulled away. "It's not bad." she whispered again.

     "If it is as 'not bad' as you claim, then allow me to examine it." I ordered, fear making my voice more stern than it needed to be, but I could not deny that I was terrified.

 _She could have been shot, twice. By the laws of battle, she_ _**should** _ _have been shot. And yet, some unarmored, masked stranger managed to be at the right place at the right time and they took…they took the arrows meant for Leliana. Her life is special. It is worth something. Perhaps Justinia sent another agent who operates much as we do to protect Leliana? But then…they would have worn armor._

     Leliana moved her hand away from her neck, revealing a shallow cut in her alabaster flesh. She had assessed it correctly. It would be bothersome, but it would not imperil her life. I had used all of my spare bandaging on Donnic, so I used my knife to cut the hem from my shirt and bind Leliana's neck. One of the guardsmen had been killed by the qunari, but the other remained beside Donnic.

     "Get him to a safe place, and watch over him." Leliana ordered the guardsman.

     She lifted my pack and handed it to me, but her ocean blue eyes were distant when they met mine. They were far and away from this current moment and time and it worried me. When it came to action, to battle, Leliana was never anything less than wholly present. Now, it seemed that she drifted. Her eyes left mine and looked to where the qunari archers had stood. In their place were corpses, shells of the lives that had been there.

     "We did not make it back to the archers." even Leliana's voice sounded tired. "Who killed them? How did they die?"

     "The…man…who saved your life." Donnic ground out as his comrade helped him to his feet. "I watched him take two arrows for you, then he slaughtered the archers and left."

 _What?_  Confusion filled my mind.  _They defeated the archers and are still alive? With two arrows embedded in their body? How is that possible? I need to…I need to find them and help…_

     Leliana turned to me, confusion in her eyes. "That was not you?" she asked, her voice low. "You are not the one who wrapped me in your arms and kept me out of harm's way?"

     I shook my head. "I tried to reach you, but I fell. I was not fast enough. Guardsman Donnic was right. You were saved by a stranger in a mask. I saw him too."

     Leliana shook herself, as if waking herself from a dream. "How odd." she murmured, then looked at me and shook her head. "Kathyra, no. Inasmuch as I am…I am grateful to whoever saved my life, we cannot afford to tarry here. We have spent time enough already."

     I frowned, but I understood her reasoning. The best way to aid the wounded was always to stop the fighting that bred injuries. Leliana and I knew that the qunari would not go to the Gallows to finish their holy war, but to the seat of Kirkwall's greed and avarice. The power of law that looked out on lawlessness and did precious little. We would have to go to the viscount's keep.

     Leliana took off at a run and I followed her, but I could not get the image of a complete unknown arriving to the battle just as we needed them and risking their life to save Leliana's out of my mind. I whispered a prayer of thanks to the Maker, and begged them to keep the stranger safe, until I could find them and repay them, a life for a life.


	7. The Duel Fought for Kirkwall

**Viscount's Keep - Kirkwall  
** **Leliana**

     We were too late. The violence that filled the streets had made its way already to the viscount's keep. Kathyra and I barely made it through the doors before those who attempted to bar them were swept out of the way, not with hands, but with blades. The shrieks of the imprisoned, well-bred nobles of Kirkwall sounded shrill in my ears, once more making me despise the days I had spent among the nobility, wanting to be part and parcel with that manner of living. 

     Much had changed since those days. I had changed. But now I stood, not as one among them, but one willing to protect the fools who let themselves be herded like cattle instead of fighting back. The qunari executed their plan well. Beyond well. They had corralled and imprisoned all the powerful people of Kirkwall. Even Knight Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino were in this room. And, in the center, near the severed head of Kirkwall's viscount, stood Ryker Hawke. 

     I had known my share of tall, imposing warrior women, but few of those I knew struck the same regal, indomitable profile that the eldest Hawke child did now. I read her body, the tension in her shoulders, the flash in her eyes, the sternness of her jaw. Wicked blue eyes flared as she spoke to the qunari Arishok, but I did not listen to their conversation. The words were not important. People died when they focused on the words and ignored everything else around them. 

     Amid the din of worried whispers, Hawke and the Arishok's exchange, I heard the sound of running feet. I turned towards it; saw nothing but a silhouette racing for an as yet unguarded door. It was a coward who would flee at a time like this, saving no life but their own. Let them run. Glory was for those who remained behind, who faced their demons. Immortality was for those who died in the facing. 

     I shook my head free of the thought, slipping through the crowd, everyone so involved within their own lives and fears that not one took notice of the bloodied, ersatz bandage around my throat. The cut had been glancing, but the brush with death very real, and I had no doubt, should we survive the evening, that my lover and physician would be more than happy to tell me so. I glanced back, shaking my head at the sight that greeted me, Kathyra bent over a fainted noblewoman, waving smelling salts under her nose, assuring the red-faced, quivering-jowled gentleman next to her that all would be well. 

      _How was it not she who saved me back in the alleys?_ I allowed myself to wonder, while still keeping an eye on the situation.  _I felt the arms of my protector and they were warm and they were caring and so very, very strong. Even in the midst of battle, I felt...I knew I was loved._ I glanced back to my physician.  _Who else would it have been, if not Kathyra? Who else would...would make me feel as I felt then?_

 For the briefest of moments, I entertained the idea of my rescuer, but dismissed it as quickly as the thought had come. My days as an idyllic dreamer, as a teller of tales that ended in reunion, were done. I served in the world of reality now. A world in which I had been made the Left Hand of the Divine. It did not feel right, to know that I was now one of the most powerful women in Thedas. Perhaps it felt this way because I could do nothing to alter the situation. The qunari did not respect the rule of Chantry Law.

 _If they knew who I was, my title and position, they would slaughter me._  

 "Ryker, don't be an idiot!" I heard a cry, a Rivaini accent that I remembered all too well from my stay in Kirkwall and from the Pearl in Denerim, years ago, when a lusty pirate cheated at Wicked Grace...then entreated me to warm her bed. 

  _She murmured lascivious things and placed her hand on my thigh without permission. I thought it was harmless fun but was uncertain. Her touch made me uncomfortable but she would not remove her hand...until Salem broke her wrist...then the crazy pirate and my warden both began laughing. Wynne mended the bone and we spent the night drinking and laughing together._

     "You gave me  _no_ choice, Isabela." Ryker Hawke spoke loud enough for us all to hear.

     Her voice rang, anguish and pain personified. However, there lay within her words an undercurrent of iron. I blinked and in that flash of a second, I saw the viscount's keep become the great hall in Fort Drakon. In the Arishok's place stood Loghain Mac Tir and in Ryker Hawke's was Salem. Then, the blink passed, the memory vanished; leaving with it the lingering ache that would never fade. So long as I placed myself before sights such as this, I would be reminded of the heart that I left behind, cut down beneath the earth, a slave to the curse that saved Ferelden and Thedas both. 

     "No! It's not right! This is  _my_ fight! You can't champion me!" Isabela's cries echoed across the floor. 

     From my position, I saw Ryker look to the Rivaini woman and her eyes were eloquent in fear, distress, and an overwhelming, powerful love. 

     "I can and I will, and all I ask is that you consider the fact that  _others_   ** _have_**  honor to defend!" Ryker's voice rose. "Think of that the next time your wicked heart and your greedy hands paint a beautiful future for you at the expense of others!"

     "If you hate me so, then why do you fight?" Isabela questioned, her voice rising over the nervous titters of the nobles and the ominous silence of the qunari. "Why not give me to them?"

     Ryker wrested her sword from its sheath, her raven hair falling in front of her face. Her opponent would use that feature to his advantage.

     "Because your greedy hands stole my heart, 'Bela." Hawke's words held a razor's edge. "And because I won't let Kirkwall pay for  _your_  mistake. One life for thousands; it's bloody worth it."

 _Forgive me for this but I…I have no choice. It has to be me…_ Salem's words from the night she learned of the warden's fate whispered through my mind _…I have to die_.

     "Leliana," Kathyra's voice and the woman herself suddenly beside me, "Leliana, we have to step in. We have to intervene. Look at the size of his blades. He'll  _slaughter_  her."

     "Hawke will be the victor here." I replied, a calm in my words that I did not understand, but trusted implicitly.

     "Leliana, there are miracles and then there is  _reality_." Kathyra stressed the last words as the Arishok roared a battle cry and charged at the woman half his size. "The reality of this is that his strength and speed will win the day."

     I shook my head, exasperating my lover. I knew she wanted to understand my reasoning, and even though I thought my words would grant it no justice, I spoke them for her sake.

     "The reality of this, Kathyra," I murmured, "is that the Arishok fights for his belief and his faith."

     "Ever more the reason for his victory." Kathyra hissed. "A man who fights for faith…"

     "Is nothing compared to the man who fights for love." I replied, knowing the truth of it. "Faith alone  _can_  sustain and drive and support. It is its own miracle, but it is from love that faith springs and thus Hawke's victory is certain, because she fights for love."

     "The love of a fickle traitor who is apparently largely the cause of this madness." Kathyra glowered at Isabela.

     The pirate woman was restrained by the elf who kept company with Hawke, not the slender, delicate maleficar, but the former Tevinter slave. Isabela tore at his grasp as Hawke's fragile-looking longsword and the Arishok's wicked double blades collided and sparked against each other. From the corner of my eye I saw the daunting figure of Aveline Vallen. Her shoulders were bunched into shrieking knots and, inasmuch as she had made my life a misery in Lothering with her suspicions and leading questions, I wished her no ill.

     I prayed in that moment as I had never prayed before. I prayed that Hawke  _would_  find victory, that Aveline's affianced would survive his injuries, that the man who had saved my life might be kept safe and whole. I prayed for the madness that gripped Kirkwall to depart with the western wind, for the safety of my friends, Kestrel and Rylie, both of them who lived under Meredith's tyranny; both of whom had nearly died for me.

     My prayers were interrupted by a bellowing roar and I looked to see the Arishok charging at Hawke, his blades straight out before him. The woman backpedaled, but the idiot nobles hemming her in gave her no room to dodge. My throat tightened as I believed I would soon see the woman impaled. But Ryker Hawke fought for love, and she took a risk much like someone else that I once knew…someone else who had fought for love.

     Hawke rushed forward to meet the Arishok's charge and he angled his blades to pierce her through. She stopped her charge, trapping one blade beneath her arm and turning to the side. The Arishok's second blade screeched across Hawke's chestplate. The warrior took advantage of the qunari's charge and, with her one arm still trapping his dominant blade, turned in towards him and struck between his arm and shoulder with a gauntleted fist. Her fist landed where she aimed it, into a bundle of nerves that controlled the arm. The force of her blow caused the Arishok to drop his offhand weapon.

 _But she will pay for that small victory._ I looked to Kathyra, who had also predicted what would happen next.

     The Arishok pulled back on the sword beneath Hawke's arm with brutal fury. A spray of crimson blood showered across the floor and splattered the faces of the insipid gaggle of high-born fools. Several of the ladies screeched and swooned, but over even their idiot ululations sounded the ragged cry of the injured Hawke.

     " _Ryker!"_ Isabela's scream echoed through the room. " _Fenris, let me_ _ **go!**_ _"_

     My hands trembled, because I knew the tone of Isabela's voice. It had colored my own words many times…too many times. I knew what it was to watch my lover bleed in battle, to fear that they would fall at the hands of their enemy, that their eyes would close and open no more.

_Not this woman, Maker, please. Not this day._

     Warm, gentle fingers closed around my hand and I looked away from the duel into Kathyra's eyes. Understanding shone from the verdant green and my desperate prayer turned to a whisper of thanks. Thanks because I knew that, if we returned home tonight, my silence would not be questioned, my reticence would be forgiven. With the simple touch of her hand, Kathyra told me that she knew my nightmares would return; that I would wake, drenched in sweat, with another's name on my lips. My physician would neither judge nor rise to anger.

     All eyes were on Hawke as she struggled to gain her feet. Blood sheeted down her armor and I could see the deep black gash in the metal. Who knew how much damage had been done? All we could see was the Arishok standing over her with his sword raised. Hawke scrabbled across the ground with her hand, searching for the sword she had dropped when she had taken the wound. Her fingers closed around the hilt and as the Arishok swung his blade down, Hawke rose up, screaming past the pain of her wounds, angling her blade into the qunari's heart just as he finished the arc of his swing. Her blade pierced his chest as his lodged deep into the back of her hip and thigh.

     Hawke's body stiffened, but she managed to remain upright as the Arishok toppled to the ground. The nobles all began screaming and shouting, some in fear, some in triumph, no longer cowering because another had fought and bled for them. My lip curled upwards in a sneer of disgust. People such as these were wastes of the air we breathed. Many of them did not deserve the lives they had, much less the luxury that eased their way.

     Kathyra was already pushing her way through the crowd, struggling to get to Hawke as the throng gathered around their very injured hero. If something was not done, Hawke would be killed by the gratitude of those who would choke her off from the aid she needed. I had seen this too many times before, and I had shed the blood of the ignorant grateful whose idiocy would kill the one who had saved them.

     All through the room rang the shouts of Hawke's name, save for the woman's companions, who were screeching for another. I recognized the name they called, and it chilled me to my very bones. I knew this name, and the person attached to it. A person who had made a threat, a threat I would never forgive them for making.

_Anders. Why in the Maker's name are they crying out for that wretched apostate?_

     An icy energy nearby startled me out of my reverie, and I looked to my right, feeling sickened by the sheer power of Knight-Commander Meredith's frigid aura. She spat on the floor and looked to where the crowd gathered around Ryker Hawke.

     "Well." her words were a frozen blade. "It seems that Kirkwall has a new champion."

     With that dark observation, she turned on her heel and marched out of the keep. I began pushing my way through the crowd, needing to get to Kathyra, to make sure that Hawke would be all right. The viscount was dead and I knew, as would any with the barest knowledge of the Game, that now was the opportune time to seize power over the city. Meredith would attempt to take that power and would, like as not, be successful.

     With the viscount dead, the people of Kirkwall would have no voice, no defender. Ryker Hawke needed to live. I would make certain that happened, even if I had to shed the blood of those who crowded around her.

     "Clear a path!" I shouted, making my voice heard above the din.

     I shoved and tripped and elbowed people out of the way until a path to the door had been made clear. The elf who had been restraining Isabela now knelt before Hawke, with him a man I recognized as Brother Sebastian Vael. The Arishok's bloody blade had been cast to the side. Hawke's eyes were still open, pained and terrified. Her paling lips moved in four syllables that would break the hardest of hearts.

 _Isabela_ , I read her lips.  _She is crying out for her love, even though she is in too much pain to speak._

     "Brother Vael, Fenris," Kathyra spoke, collected as only she could be in this situation, "on my command, lift her." my physician turned and set her eyes on me, shaking her head.

     I faded back into the crowd at Kathyra's wish, understanding why she had signaled me thus when Aveline charged through the crowd and reached Hawke. Blood drained from her face as she saw the state her friend was in. Her eyes went to the dwarf and Hawke's closest friend, Varric.

     "Where is Anders?" Aveline asked. "Why isn't he here?"

     It was not Varric that answered, but Fenris. "The coward ran when Meredith arrived. Said he could not risk being caught, and now Hawke will suffer for his selfishness."

     The blood that had drained away returned to Aveline's face with a flush of fury. "I will find that bastard, shove my fist in his mouth, and pull his manhood out by his throat!" the guard-captain threatened. "Is there anyone here who can…"

     "I'm a physician." Kathyra spoke. "I will do what I can for her, but you had best send someone to find your mage friend. And pray. Pray to the Maker that she'll live."

     "I'll find him myself." Aveline swore, turning and running from the keep, shouting orders at her guardsmen.

     Kathyra nodded to Sebastian and Fenris. They lifted Hawke's body from the ground and the woman let out a piteous wail of anguish. I winced, remembering another champion, another hero's screams of pain. A hand landed on my shoulder and I flinched, then recognized the touch as my lover's.

     "Leliana," Kathyra met my gaze, "it does not look good. I need someone who can competently assist me, and that is  _none_ of Hawke's companions. I know that your presence in this city needs to remain secret, but I need your help to save this life."

     I parted my lips to deny her, lest our greater purpose here be lost, but then I remembered a stranger's arms enfolding me, protecting me from the arrows of my enemy, and knew that I owed a life to the world. To the Maker.

     I offered all that I had to Kathyra in the form of a weak smile. "Lead the way."


	8. To Save a Champion

**Streets of Kirkwall** **  
Kathyra**

     The city was chaos and hell. It seemed that every corner was piled high with the dead, and my boots were stained crimson from all the blood in the streets. All around me hovered the stench of smoke and death. The streets needed to be cleared and the bodies burned, or disease would breed and spread and once again endanger the lives of those who had been lucky enough to survive this attack. 

     There were times when i did not know why I cared for the inhabitants of this city. Every day, it seemed, they poised themselves on the brink of some new catastrophe. They courted misfortune and held risk close like a lover. Those who did not give themselves over to fear and hatred were over-burdened with blissful ignorance...or blatant stupidity. In spite of all this, I could not turn my back, no matter how much the events I witnessed, the cyclical repetition of damnation, made me wish to do so. 

     Events such as a healer abandoning a friend in order to preserve his own life and supposed freedom. A name had been cried out, not answered, and I saw a shadow pass over Leliana's features. Somehow, she knew the healer of whom the Hawke's companion spoke, and did not think well of him. Even with no prior knowledge,  _I_ did not think well of him. 

      _It is not that I think ill of him for fearing Knight-Commander Meredith,_ I thought as I followed Sebastian and Fenris, who bore the semi-conscious Hawke.  _I know what harm that woman and her edicts have done to the mages. I nearly lost my friend's life to Meredith's cruelty. But I did not let my fear sway my actions, unlike this man, who seems to have chosen his own survival over the survival of the woman who saved this wretched city._

     The estates of High Town came into view and Varric Tethras ran towards the doors of the Hawke estate, the Dalish elf Merrill at his heels. It felt disingenuous to be here, to help them, and to act as strangers. We had kept close watch on Ryker Hawke and her companions. We knew their names, much of their histories, where they came from...but they knew nothing of us, save perhaps for the whispered words and secrets that haunted Kirkwall. Ryker, Bethany, and Aveline knew Leliana from their days spent in Lothering. Sebastian knew her from her dealings with the Chantry. But not one among them knew my face, or whether or not they could trust me to care for their friend. 

     Yet, in spite of that, they were trusting me, and I would honor that. Unfortunately, Hawke needed a mage. Anything I might do for her would be a stop-gap measure at best. All of the spectators saw the fountain of blood when the Arishok struck, but they did not know what the sword had done beyond the slicing of skin. I followed the path of the blade with my eyes, assessed the damage it would do and...and there would be no saving Ryker Hawke with anything short of magic. 

      _And the one mage they know that can help us is lost to the winds and his own fear. Perhaps the Dalish elf knows a little of healing. Though, to hear Leliana tell it, a Keeper's magic has little to do with the healing arts, until they are older. They are first taught to protect the clan with their magic, which I understand and will not fault her for._

     The doors of the estate swung wide and Hawke's friends carried her over the threshold and up the stairs. I was met at the door by a pale elf-woman, whose large eyes were full of fear and riveted to the crimson spatters on the floor. 

     "Are you a servant of the house?" I asked, needing to make certain before I began asking for aid. 

     "I am." Her voice trembled and her eyes did not move from the scarlet droplets. 

     "I need the fire stoked in Hawke's room, boiling water, spare sheets for bandaging, and..." I winced, not wishing to do this, but knowing that if Aveline Vallen did not soon find the mage, Anders, it would have to be done. "...iron bars placed in the fire. Also, I will require honey, if you have any."

     The elven woman ran towards the kitchen and I followed the blood spatters up the stairs, Leliana behind me. 

     "Irons and honey?" Leliana whispered as we walked. "What possible use..."

     "The Arishok's sword filleted Hawke's side." I answered, terse. "If I'm right about the injury, and I am rarely wrong, then her armor is the sole thing keeping a very large piece of skin attached to her body. If the mage cannot be found in time, the skin will have to be seared together. Too many layers have been sliced through for stitches to close the wound effectively."

     "And the honey?" Even my beautiful, strong-spirited bard could not hide the quavering of her voice.

      _She has been tortured,_ I reminded myself.  _She has had hot irons pressed against open wounds in order to keep her alive so that even more pain and damage could be inflicted upon her person. It is still hard for her to understand that, sometimes, torturous methods must be employed for healing._

     "It words remarkably well for burns, easing the pain and staving off infection." I replied, feeling the shudder that rippled through the woman I loved. 

     "I see." Leliana's voice trailed off. 

     When we reached the top of the stairs, her fingers latched around my arm, stopping me from entering the room where I  _needed_ to be...but she would not halt me were it not important. 

     "What do you need, love?" I asked, seeing concern in her radiant eyes. 

     "You are not all here, Kathyra." Leliana accused, and I could not argue against the truth of her statement. "Where is the rest of your mind?"

     I pursed my lips and breathed deep, uncertain of what her reaction would be to my words. "It is with the man who saved you in the alley." I told her. "I watched him take two arrows that would have ended your life. I want to find him, and help him, but instead I am...I am here."

     "Ryker Hawke saved Kirkwall." Leliana brushed a rogue strand of hair away from my face. "She needs your healing hands, now. As for the man who saved me...we can but e where we are needed and do what we are able. I am certain the Maker will show him kindness."

     "I pray you are right." I whispered, and her hand left my arm. 

     I entered the room and nodded my approval to Sebastian, Fenris, and Merrill. Merrill had stripped the sheets from the bed, leaving only the one that covered the mattress. Ryker Hawke lay on the bed, a crimson stain spreading from her body across the sheet. They had made no attempt to remove her armor, for which I was grateful. I looked to the Dalish elf. 

     "Have you any skill with healing magic?" I asked, watching her alabaster skin fade to another shade of pale. 

     "I promise you are safe." Leliana spoke from behind me, her voice imparting comfort and reassurance in a way mine never could. A calm confidence that she had not learned from her days with Marjolaine, but that she had possessed since I had known her. She spoke in the way of the late Salem Cousland, and I found it lovely. "Our sole desire is to help Hawke. The fact that you are a mage means nothing, and your secret will be kept."

     Merrill nodded, but her lips trembled as she spoke. "I...I'm no good with healing." Leliana nodded, having thought as much, I was sure. "But I...I'm quite good with elemental magic, if that is...if that is useful."

     "It is." I nodded. "I need you to keep her body cold enough so that she does not hemorrhage, but not so cold that hypothermia sets in. Do you have that level of control?"

     "I do." The elf nodded and came to stand beside the bed, her hands wrapped around her staff, which she set out before her, and tapped three times on the ground as her lips began to move in an incantation. 

     I glanced to Leliana and noticed that she had gone pale, making the blood-soaked cloth around her neck stand out with a terrifying starkness. My lover was not one to faint at the sight of blood, or to shy away when it came to helping me mend a grave injury, but for some reason her eyes were riveted to Merrill and her spell. She appeared as though she were in torment, being tortured, as though some force had backspun her into hell itself...

      _Oh holy Maker..._ I remembered writing the story of a life lived, of a moment so very similar to this, when Leliana had whispered to me in the dark of the horrors she endured. And, after the recounting, she wept bitter tears and curled into herself, shivering with the pain of her memories. I had attempted to reach out, to touch her, to take some measure of her burden...she'd struck my hand away. She held sacred the pain of loving Salem Cousland.  _This is very much like what happened that stormy night in Denerim, when Leliana dragged Salem out of Rendon Howe's dungeons. An apostate mage cast a spell to chill Salem's body so that she would not lose more blood...so that her fever might break..._

     I turned to my lover and stood in front of her, blocking her view of Merrill. I reached out, taking her hands in my own and wincing at their frigidity. I held her until her unfocused eyes settled on mine. 

     "Leliana, my darling, I am here." I whispered, low enough that none other in the room could hear. "I am here, and I  _need_ you now. I know what you are seeing, and I cannot imagine that terror and that pain revisiting my heart, but this is not then. I need your hands, love, your strong, capable hands. 

     "This is..." Her lips quivered and her voice shook. 

     "Torture, I know." I reached up and cupped her cheek. "But I'll hold you at the end. I'll wash the blood from your hands and I will brush your hair and draw you back against me and let you speak of everything and nothing. But first, please, push through the pain. And when we are done, when we are alone, if that pain returns, I will be there. Trust me. Please."

     "I was so afraid..." Leliana murmured, her eyes still lost in the past, but her eyes grew clearer and clearer as she looked at me. 

     "Look at  _them,_ Leliana." I pointed out the others in the room: Sebastian, Fenris, Varric, Merrill, the elven servant and dwarven retainer. " _They_ are just as afraid as you were. We can alleviate that fear."

     A shudder rippled through my lover's body, as though her soul had departed from the past and brought her back to the present. Her eyes grew sharp and clear and she nodded and squeezed my hands. 

     "Then let us do so." She spoke, and when I moved towards the bed, she followed me and did not look at anything but the woman that needed healing. 

     "Help me get her armor off." I reached for the straps, breathing a prayer to an old, forgotten goddess...the goddess of mercy and healing. My Giselle's goddess. 

     And as I prayed, in the corner appeared a figure both friend and fiend. I glanced up from my work, nodding to the spectre of Death. I acknowledged his presence, then, once again, I began to fight against him. 


	9. The Bitterness of Aftermath

**The Gallows** **  
** **Rylie**

     In the Gallows, Meredith reigned as queen. Therefore, silence ruled. Hushed whispers, furtive glances, conversations spoken more with eyes than words. It was as the knight-commander wanted, for any undue racket heralded a change. Change that might be dangerous. However, there was truth in something Leliana once told me. Silence could kill if indulged in for too long. On occasion, it  _must_ be broken. But I had never wanted to see the pall of silence broken in  _this_ way.

     Templars were running forth and back, screaming orders. Mages skilled in healing moved with purpose, unwatched because their gifts were so needed in this moment. If the normal, fiercely enforced order of the Gallows had been disrupted, I could not imagine the nightmare that must be the city streets of Kirkwall. I pretended that I was working, that I sought to maintain what little order was present, but in truth, I was searching for someone. 

     All of the templar and mage squads that were sent to help keep order and fight the qunari in the city had returned. Ryker Hawke's defeat of the Arishok was on everyone's lips...or had been, until Meredith strode through the Gallows looking so icy that I was certain a single ray of the sun would shatter and melt her. Knight-Captain Cullen would give us no answers as to why she had looked like a walking thunderstorm, and the largesse of the mages were too afraid to speak to the templars, so we did not know what news First Enchanter Orsino had passed to them.  

      _Bethany must be worried sick,_ I thought, seeking out the one apostate mage who had not been shaved or marked when brought to the Gallows. Her sister's name inspired that much respect...or perhaps fear.  _I must remember to send a messenger bird to Kathyra and ask after Hawke. Meredith might not have shaved Bethany's hair or tattooed her face, but she tortures the poor woman in other ways...such as burning her sister's letters or keeping any knowledge of Ryker from Bethany for as long as possible._

     I continued my search, sweat running down my face, burning my eyes and chapping my lips. I reached up to loosen the ties on my shirt and winced as movement aggravated the gash in my bicep. An arrow had grazed my arm during the fighting, but the wound was in no way serious, unlike so many of the others. I had lost one of the templars in my squad. There was a time when a fellow templar's death would make me grieve, no matter who they were or how slight my acquaintance with them had been. But I abandoned those emotions, leaving them back in the days when I believed the templar order stood for something greater than it was. 

     I did not grieve the death of the man who died in my arms. I had seen him brutalize the mages we were meant to protect. He was fond of cuffing the mage children about the head if they spoke too loudly in the dining hall, or if they shouted while playing in the courtyard, and there had been too many times that I witnessed several young mage women, always with golden hair, cower and curl into themselves when he approached. I had nothing but my suspicions to go on, but I felt certain that, with his death, the Gallows had been made safer for those it was meant to protect. 

     I clenched my hands into fists, attempting to control my worry. I had not found Kestrel in the courtyard of the Gallows, where the mages had been ordered to wait until accounted for by the templars. I could but hope that she was summoned into the dining hall, which, because of its size and ease of access, had been made into a temporary infirmary. Kestrel had become adept at healing and there were many, many wounded. The templars here were skilled at fighting apostates, bringing down abominations, and defeating their own kind in sparring matches. However, fighting the qunari...

     I shuddered at the memory of how many times I brushed with death during the course of the battle. I was sent into the city before being able to properly armor myself, and the qunari were like no enemy I had faced before. They were tall and strong, their weapons with longer reach, their style of combat unlike any other I ever encountered. If it had not been for the tactics taught to me by Leliana and Kathyra, I would be dead many times over. Many of the other templars were not so lucky as I. 

     Many fell. More still bore grave wounds. We had...we had lost several mages as well, but I was forced to pretend that I cared very little about that. Keeping that pretense was perhaps the most difficult thing I had ever been ordered to do. I wanted to run through the Gallows, screaming Kestrel's name, because I loved her, because I had not yet found her, and I could not  _bear_ the thought of her injured or...or worse...lying dead in the streets of Kirkwall. 

      _All of the templar dead were brought back to be prepared for burial. But not...not the mages. The mages were left where they fell, to be tended to later by the workers of the city; to be burned and their ashes cast into the sea. The templars will be burned and committed to the Maker with full honors. Their swords will be inscribed with their names and both the blades and their ashes will be sent to Val Royeaux, to the home of the Order, to be remembered forever. I hate this. I hate everything about this._

     I entered the dining hall and the groans and cries of the wounded assaulted me. I walked down the rows of those injured and awaiting healing, looking at every body, hoping to see the shock of black hair and vivid green eyes that belonged to the woman I loved. 

     "You fucking cunt!" I heard a gruff voice shout, and looked towards the sound, seeing a templar slap the face of Thomas Herron, a good, gentle young mage and a phenomenal healer. "That bloody hurt! You're supposed to  _fix_ it, not make it worse!" The templar continued to upbraid Thomas and I walked towards them, fury powering my steps. 

     The templar's tirade did not cease; instead, his language became more foul and his tone more demeaning. He reached out and grabbed the front of Thomas' robe, pulling the young man's face so close to his own that flecks of his spittle adorned Thomas' cheeks. I reached them, grabbed the back of Thomas' robe, and hauled him bodily away from the templar. The healer stumbled and I put myself between him and his ill-tempered, disgusting patient. 

     The livid templar cursed at me and reached out, attempting to grab my leg and trip me, or perhaps pull me to the floor. I dodge his sloppy swipe with ease, then kicked him in the side of his rib-cage. He howled in pain and his arm dropped as he rocked back and forth, exacerbating his discomfort like an idiot. Not satisfied, I planted my foot in his chest and shoved him down to the floor, following that with a swift kick to his temple. The man's body went slack as unconsciousness took him and I nodded in approval as blood poured from the rip that the armored toe of my boot made in his skin. 

     I turned back to Thomas, whose eyes were fixed on me in absolute shock. 

     "Are you well, Master Healer?" I asked, looking him over, happy to see that the only damage done to his person was the red mark from the templar's slap. 

     "I-I-I..." He stammered, unable to process what just transpired. "...yes, sergeant." He managed. "I am well, b-b-but he n-n-needs healing."

     I shook my head. "There are others here who need your aid more, Thomas." His eyes widened when I spoke his first name, treating him as a person, an equal. "Help them first. Then, if that waste of air is still alive, you may minister to his negligible wounds."

     "B-b-but we're s-s-supposed to treat the t-t-templars first." He stuttered. 

     "Then help the ones who won't curse you or strike you." I rested my hand on his shoulder and pointed to the rest of the wounded, of which there were many...too many. "That is an order, Master Healer."

     "Y-y-yes, sergeant." He nodded his head, then bowed it, lowering his eyes further and moving to a new patient. 

     "Sergeant Camerloch, your arm." I turned and looked into the kind, dark eyes of Bethany Hawke. Her gentle fingers reached out and touched my blood-soaked shirt sleeve. "Allow me..."

     "It will keep." I told her, touched by her kindness. 

     Bethany and Kestrel were friends, but the younger Hawke and I had exchanged but a handful of sentences through the years I had been here. That she sought me out and showed concern for my well-being helped me to believe once more in the good of mankind, especially given the horror I had intervened in.

     "If you're certain." Bethany spoke of my injury, but in her eyes I could see a dark cloud. I thought that it might be concern for her sister, until... "Sergeant Camerloch, I haven't seen Kestrel. She is not among the whole or the wounded."

     The world went white and fell out from beneath my feet. My heart began to pound inside my ribs like a caged falcon. My throat went dry and I lifted my hand to my neck as I struggled to breathe. I wished to re-write time and unhear Bethany's words, but, instead, I clawed my fingernails into the gash in my arm, needing the pain to prove that this was not a horrendous nightmare. I felt the pain and I wanted to die. 

     "You do not think that she...that she attempted escape, do you?" Bethany asked in a whisper. 

     "No." I replied, strangled. "No, she...she wouldn't."

     Bethany's lips trembled. "I thought as much." Her words were full of dejection and defeat. "But I wanted to believe." Her eyes glistened in the light, showing the sheen of tears. "I wanted to believe it because otherwise...Maker, preserve us. Sergeant Camerloch, I am so...I am so sorry."

     I could not acknowledge her words. i did not want to acknowledge the truth. I felt as though I bled inside, as though I had been run through with a double-edged sword. My gut twisted and my heart  _hurt_ in a way it had not since Kestrel's Harrowing. There were no thoughts in my mind save the image of my Kestrel, the thief of my heart and the love of my life. My magic mistress. My mystic bliss. 

     I had not seen her in the courtyard, and Bethany confirmed that she did not lie with the wounded. It could only mean...it could only mean that I was...that the light of my heart had gone out. That Kestrel paid for Kirkwall's freedom from the qunari...with her blood. With her very life. The metallic stench of blood and the cries of the injured became too much for me to bear. Black stars burst behind my eyes and I swayed, unsteady on my feet. 

     "Sergeant?" Alarm filled Bethany's tone. "Sergeant Camerloch, are you..."

     "No." My voice sounded like gravel and dust, like the yawning chasm of the grave. "No, I need to...I need to be alone."

      _But there is no place to be alone here. There are always eyes watching, always tongues wagging. I cannot stay here, however, lest my tears give me away. I cannot watch my tongue or my words in this state, and to have it known that I grieve for the life of a mage...I would be cast out of the order, here. Oh, Maker, help me now._

     Bethany's hand wrapped around my forearm and her eyes moved to a door at the back corner of the dining hall. "Go through that door." She said. "It's a lesser-known entrance to the root cellar for the kitchens. You can remain there for a while, and if asked, I will make certain you are not soon found."

     "T...Thank you." I breathed, stunned by her kindness. Kestrel spoke of it often, but this was the first time I had witnessed it with my own eyes. "How..."

     "I needed a place to shed tears for my mother's dead." She explained, sorrow of her own coloring her voice. "I can see that you need that same privacy; that same grace."

     "I am...I am grateful." I managed to rasp. "I know I...I can't repay you, but...but I know you are worried for Ryker. I will find out what I can, and I will...I will give you the information."

     The tears welling in Bethany's eyes spilled over. "Bless you, sergeant." She whispered. "Go, before others see us speaking and grow suspicious."

     I nodded and shuffled off. My feet felt so heavy and my heart felt even heavier. I did not know why or how I still breathed, how my eyes managed to blink when I felt they should be fixed open in horror and shock and pain. I wanted to strike the stone walls until my knuckles were shredded and my bones were dust. I wanted to take my knife and cut out my heart because it  _hurt_ so very much. 

      _How can it be that I will never hear her voice in my ears again?_ I thought, making it to the door, looking back so that I knew none were watching, and slipping inside.  _How can it be that her delicate, thief's fingers will never thread through my hair again?_ I stumbled down the stairs as tears fell from my eyes.  _How do I continue on from here? I cannot...every day spent in this wretched hell is **agony** , but I could bear it because of  **her**. Now I will not be able to...I do not know how to live anymore. _

     The stairs ended, spilling out into the root cellar. A faint glow emanated from a crystal in a glass sconce affixed to the wall. Kestrel once told me about them; that the light crystals had been imported from Orzammar and that their crafting was a secret art held closely by the dwarves. I asked why she knew something so trivial and she'd smiled...

      _How is it that I will never see that wicked smile again? I cannot manage...I cannot...I don't...Maker...Maker... **help me!**_

     My throat tightened and I choked on my tears. I coughed, heavy and harsh, driven to my knees by the paroxysm, desperate in my attempt to  _breathe_. Kestrel always made me smile during my sorrow. She would brush away my tears and whisper something sweet about how eyes that sparked with heaven's own light should not be dimmed by tears. 

      _She called them her night sky eyes._

     Images and flashes of our past bombarded me: our meeting during training, the night we had first been given lyrium and I was forced to drag her out into the snow to cool her fever because the infusion of lyrium had made her magic nearly burn her alive. The horrific time on board the ship when Kestrel remained with me, holding me, tending to my wounds. The night we first made love, outside on a grassy hill, underneath the stars. 

      _Never again._

     A ragged sob tore out of my throat and even though I was on my knees I bent double with the pain of my grief, wanting to retch until I had nothing left in my stomach, nothing left in my body, nothing left in my soul. I screamed from the pain and clawed at the dirt floor with my hands, driving the soil beneath my fingernails until they ached. My body spasmed with wretched wailing; I could hear nothing but my own grief, feel nothing but the...

     ...warm, lithe arms wrapped around me, pulling me from my bent position. I felt gentle breath on my ear and hear the impossible. 

     "Don't cry, sweet girl. Please don't cry."


	10. The Sweetness of Reunion

**The Gallows** **  
** **Kestrel Ariyah**

     I wanted nothing more than for this moment to last forever. Months had passed since I'd felt the warmth and weight of my lover in my arms. Months had passed full of furtive glances, longing thoughts, fruitless wishes, and torrid dreams. Now, for a perfect, transcendent moment, I held my dream made reality. 

     I'd hidden myself when I heard footsteps on the stairs, and all but lost my sanity when I heard and witnessed her agony and saw her double hover. I knew that her tears were for me; that she believed the worst had come to pass. Seeing her so anguished devastated my heart. I would apologize and she would forgive. The fighting in Kirkwall, the death and desperation, had eroded the last of my strength. I longed for a loving touch, a gentle hand, whispered words. I needed the lover that the magic in my blood and the foolish laws of man denied me. 

     When my squad returned to the Gallows from the city, I did not follow the orders to remain in the courtyard. Under the pretense of lending aid to the healers, I had gone to the dining hall, slipped through the door unseen, and hidden in the root cellar. My plan was to wait for the chaos to end, then to slip out and make my way to Rylie's quarters. While the consequences of being caught were ever in my mind, I did not care. I would endure whatever torment Meredith could conjure if it meant I would be able to gaze into my lover's night sky eyes, tangle my fingers in her chestnut curls, and breathe the same air as she. I would spent a lifetime in hell for one moment with her. 

     "Ke...Kestrel?" She asked, her lilting Starkhaven brogue cracking over my name. "Kes, is that you?"

     Though I did not wish to release her, I loosened my arms, allowing her to turn and see my face. I hated the sheen of tears in her snapping black eyes, the grief she could not hide from her expressive features. I reached up and touched her cheek, feeling the soft skin dampened by her tears. Her lips trembled and she closed her eyes and turned her face into my touch. 

     We remained like that for a timeless moment, holding still because we could not believe that we were able to touch...that we were even able to inhabit the same space at the same time. i struggled to push past my worry that this might be a dream. I absorbed every detail that I could. The soft shadow that her tangled eyelashes cast against her cheek. The corners of her soft, supple lips trembling with the force of her emotions. The sweat-soaked chestnut curls covering my hand. 

     "You're real?" She asked, cracking the walls I had been forced to build around my heart in order to survive the nightmare that was the Gallows in Kirkwall, City of Chains. "Are you really here?"

     "I am." I breathed, pouring all of my relief and love into those two words. "Please, forgive me." I begged. "I had to see you. I was planning on hiding here until nightfall, then...then...I just had to see you. I needed... _need_ to touch you."

     "I thought you were dead." Rylie's words were soaked in anguish an the sorrow in her voice, so fresh and  _real,_ pained me. 

     "Please, forgive me." I pleaded with her, knowing that she would forgive, but needing to  _hear_ her say the words. I needed that as I had never needed anything before. "Please."

     Rylie said nothing and I felt my heart begin to die. All love had its limits of endurance and our love had been pushed to those limits so many times. I knew, as did Rylie, that what bound us together could break if pushed too far. My templar lover got to her feet and turned her back to me. My heart fell into my stomach, but I would not kneel in the dirt. I stood up and determined that I would fight to slacken the strained boundaries of our love. I would bleed, I would breath, I would debase myself...I would do  _anything_ to save us. 

     "Don't turn away, Rylie." I entreated, walking closer, needing to be surrounded by her, to be part of the air she breathed. "Please, do not turn away. Forgive me." I supplicated. "Forgive me." She did not move. "Forgive me, Rylie." My voice hardened the slightest amount, though I still begged. 

      _She can turn her back, curse my name, strike me down, but I will **not** be given silence!_

     "Rylie." I spoke her name because I needed to feel it on my tongue, because I needed the silence between us filled in order to quiet my fears. 

     Slow, in the half-light of the dwarven crystal, my templar lover turned to face me. I could see the tremors wracking her body, but the taut, corded muscles in her neck told me to keep my distance. Her lips quivered, but her black eyes were defiant. 

     "I thought you were dead, and I began to die." Her voice cracked and a single tear slipped from each eye. "Your magic, Kestrel. Can it heal a broken heart?" A pregnant, devastating pause. "Can it?"

     I could not speak to that; could not find the words to reply. Magic could not heal a broken heart. But, perhaps, the one who wielded the magic had that ability. I did the one thing I could think to do, to speak in the one language that spanned Thedas, that was understood by all. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close to me. I felt my lips catch fire when they brushed against hers and the ache that filled me always at the sight of her became a powerful, ravenous beast. 

     Rylie moaned into the kiss and the vibration of the sound spread across my lips and spilled down my throat, flooding me with lust and urge and necessity. I  _craved_ her in a way that no dream, despite its sweetness, could sate. Her slight, but powerful body slammed against my own and her strong, callused hands grasped my hips, pulling me tight against her. My fingers tangled themselves in her thick curls and I pulled her head back and savaged her throat with my lips and teeth and tongue. Salt, honeysuckle, and chamomile bloomed in my mouth, the unique flavor and heady scent that  _was_ Rylie Camerloch. 

     I needed her. 

      _Now_. 

     Using my greater height to my advantage, I pushed her against the wall. I clutched her wrists, removing her hands from my hips, and lifted her arms, pinning her with my hands and hips. She bucked against me, trying to free herself, to reverse our positions, but my longing had become a dragon roaring in my blood and between my legs and I  _would_ be with the woman I desired above life itself. 

     We did not have much time, but if her body was as slick, needy, and ready as mine, we did not  _need_ time. I bit down between her shoulder and neck, a place of great sensitivity for her, and I cherished the gasp that fluttered across my skin. 

     "Kes, please." She moaned, her hips surging against mine and I pulled away, for, if I had not been forgiven, if she did not wish for my touch, I would cease. Her eyes looked like deep pools of dark water and I wanted so very much to drown in them. 

     "Yes?" I breathed, terrified. 

     Rylie's lips quirked in an almost lascivious smile. "Take me." She ordered, and the dragon within me roared triumph.

     Time was so precious, so of the essence, I knew that we would have to wrest this moment away from the madness and the madwoman that dictated our present lives. That knowledge, however, could not alter the fact that there would never be enough time to show or enough words to describe my love for  _this_ woman. Her rasping, hitched breaths were the sweetest of music and she harmonized with herself and with the universe as she offered up a replete sigh. 

     I wanted her bare, naked and writhing beneath me, but I could not even touch her breasts. She wore a leather cuirass and we did not have time for me to undo the buckles. I kept her wrists pinned with one hand and reached down with the other, making quick work of the belt she wore. Her sword and scabbard fell to the ground, making but a small noise when they struck the soft earth. It was enough of a sound to make me worry, to give me pause. I listened close for any change, hating that life in the Gallows made me paranoid beyond measure.

     "Kes." Rylie breathed my name like a caress. "Please, lover, I...I need you."

     The desperate edge to her tone cut through me like a heated knife and thrust me from my temporary paralysis. I lowered my lips to hers again, drinking in her taste and textures, regretting that the body before me, like fine wine, could not be savored. Keeping her wrists secure, I slipped my other hand inside the waistband of her trousers. I wanted so very much to be gentle. 

     I did not have time to be gentle. 

     Rylie bit down on her bottom lip as the hair above her sex caught and pulled between my fingers, but her eyes rolled back when my hand found and slipped through the already slick, swollen folds of her womanhood. In my heart, I rejoiced, and I knew, even if we were to be parted by a century and the sea, that were we to meet again, I would still be able to remember my lover's most intimate places. I would be able to find her entrance, for it was the gate that led me home. She was my center and my world. 

     I pushed two fingers inside her and swallowed her cry of shock and pleasure. Since we could not  _truly_ be together, I curled my fingers inside her and pressed as much of me against her as I could. I wanted to feel her everywhere, to infuse myself with her essence and, not just forgive myself, but wholly abandon myself and be  _one_ with her. It would be a year at least before we were free to love each other once more; for now, I would have to be content with a frantic tryst that, were we found out, could cost us our lives. 

     Rylie ground down on my fingers, and I crushed the erect, sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her sex against the heel of my hand. I set my rhythm to the panting breaths that fell from her lips. Her legs began to tremble and her inner walls clamped down on my fingers, trapping me inside of her, keeping me within the place I wanted to  _live_. 

     My lover choked off a cry as her internal muscles kicked. She was so close to the edge. I wanted to push her  _over_ that edge, cradle her as she fell, but I hurt, as well. This rough, literal  _fuck_ would not last long enough for me to convey to her all that I wished her to know. This could not show her the true depth of my love and devotion. This could not reveal the guiding fire that she was in my life; could not sing her the song she placed in my heart. 

     Beneath me and against me, Rylie froze. Her night sky, soot black eyes were sparking and pleading and, as much as I wanted to linger, to remain here forever, I knew that time waited for no one. 

     One last, almost brutal thrust shoved Rylie off the cliff. Her lips parted and her hand slammed back against the wall as her hips jerked violently against me, prolonging the pleasure of climax and screaming with the movement of her body so that she did not use her voice to cry out. I absorbed her with my eyes, enraptured by the expression of primal release stamped on her features, and I struggled to deny the hunger of the dragon within me that demanded I burn away her armor and clothes and take her again and again and again. 

     I kept my fingers inside her and curled them up once more, pressing against her rigid skin and the nerves behind it that could double her over with pleasure. Her breathy whimper tossed my spirit about like a hurricane gale. I began to move my hand again, but when I added a third finger inside her, gentle, she shook her head. 

     "Is it too much?" I asked. "I know it has been months, but I did not think the stretch would hurt you."

     "Not that." Her brogue made my heart trip inside my chest. "You...Kestrel...I can't be selfish. I know you need this, maybe even more than me."

     I stared in awe at my goddess and my paramour and the dragon within me  _screamed_ with its own, rampant desires. The muscles of my core pulsed, insistent, and I knew that between my legs lay a flood of arousal and need and  _want_. But the lack of time intervened inside my mind and I did not want to withdraw my hand. I wanted to be inside of her for as long as possible, to feel her in the most intimate of ways for as long as I could. 

     "Give me your leg." I whispered against her ear as my own need roared again, hard and slick and more desperate than the man who faced the executioner's axe. 

     Rylie immediately planted her foot against the wall, her shorter height positioning her thigh perfectly between my legs. I rolled my hips against the pressure, feeling the hard muscle beneath her clothing and skin, rejoicing with the seam of my trousers pressed  _exactly_ as I needed it to. Again we began the frenzied, intimate dance. I plunged my fingers inside her as I rocked against her thigh and sweat broke out on my forehead, dripping down my face as hunger drove me faster. 

     I bit the inside of my cheek because I wanted to scream in pleasure and triumph. My hand slipped from Rylie's wrists, wrapping my arm around her shoulders for support. She moved her hands to my lips, pulling me against her until our movements were more primal and fierce than dogs in rut. I saw a bead of blood on her bitten lip and the high-pitched, desperate whimpers that punctuated the air made me move faster and push harder. 

     A coil of heat gathered in my belly and everything within me contracted and pulsed in the rhythm as old as time. The leg between my own was trembling again and Rylie's eyes were wild. She was so close. As was I. 

     "Kes." She gasped. "Please." 

     I needed no further permission. Ignoring the cramp in my wrist and the burning in my elbow and shoulder, I maneuvered my hand, adding a fourth finger. I pierced her entrance and pulsed against her clit with my thumb. Her mouth opened and she bit down on my shoulder to muffle her exultant shout. The pressure of her bite tingled down my back and I pinned her against the wall further, riding her leg with fervor and fury, slamming her hips into the wall until the dam within me burst. 

     All of my breath rushed from my lungs and I fell forward, resting my forehead on her shoulder, smelling her sweat and the leather of her cuirass, a fragrant, delectable perfume. I pressed my hand against the wall, trying to regain my place in the world, for every part of me shuddered with complete release an inexorable pleasure. 

     Rylie slipped her foot down the wall, taking away the delectable, delightful pressure against my core, but then her hand moved and, before I could stop it, slipped inside my trousers and between my legs. I felt her callused fingertips against my drenched, swollen sex and I cried out as she coated her fingers with my arousal, and whimpered when she removed her hand. 

     I regained enough strength to lift my head and what I witnessed threatened to undo me. Rylie had her fingers before her lips, and her tongue reached out, taking delicate sips of my essence. The muscles of my core kicked so powerfully it felt like a second climax. My templar placed her fingers in her mouth and sucked on them as if they held a rare and delicious delicacy. I watched and the dragon within me calmed and shed a tear for the cruelty of life that had reduced passion and the making of love to  _this_. 

     Rylie removed her fingers from her mouth and her eyes burned. "I had to taste you." She murmured, soft. "I had to taste you with you still inside me. I know...I know that you must leave but I want...I want you here forever."

     "I want to stay." I covered her body with my own, needing to be near her, for I knew that time was running out. "You are my home and my prosperity and my reason for living."

     "My mystic bliss." Rylie whispered her endearment for me. "Please don't go.  _Please don't go._ "

     I wanted nothing more than to give her what she asked, but I could not. It was a miracle that we had managed to steal this moment. I would cherish it, though. I would cherish it and be glad. However, I did not have the words to convey anything that I wanted to tell her. Some moments were sacred, and I honored the sacrosanct with my silence.

     Slow, tender, I withdrew my hand from her center, my heaven. The action spoke more than any words ever could and Rylie's night sky eyes filled with tears. They spilled over like a waterfall. My own eyes burned and I, too, let tears fall. Even though my body had been sated, it was not my body that most needed satiation. 

     I wanted to be able to hold her through the night, to sit with her in silence or in conversation. To speak to her of my dreams and build castles in the sky. I wanted to lie with her on a bed of rose petals, surround her with the scent of incense, illuminate her with candles. I wanted time to remove her clothing and worship her with kisses. I wanted to anoint her body with the finest scented oils from Orlais, then make love, slow, sweet, and gentle through all the hours of the night. All of this I wanted...but I could give her nothing more than a frenzied, fully-clothed coupling. 

     I hugged Rylie close, memorizing the cadence of her breathe as I felt her chest rise and fall against mine. 

     "I love you, sweet girl." I whispered. "I love you so much."

     Rylie sniffed and hugged me so tight that my ribs hurt. "I love you too, Kes. I can't...I can't live without you. So you have to promise me." She sniffed again and moved her head back, locking her eyes within mine. "You have to promise me to never go away. You can't ever go away, Kestrel Ariyah. Promise."

     "I swear it." I gave her my solemn oath. "I will never go away. I will never leave you."

     "But..." she sighed, "...you should go now." She scrubbed at her cheeks with her hands, removing her tears. "Go help the healers. No one will question that, and Bethany is worried about you. You should put her mind at ease."

     I nodded, knowing that her words were truth and wisdom, but wanting to be stubborn and remain down here, just a little longer, to grant myself a little more time with the woman who hung my sun and moon and stars. I did not have that time. But I had this memory. I had this stolen moment. I would subsist on it and work for the day that mage and templar could love each other without fear of punishment, reprisal, or death. 

     I leaned down and gave her one last, gentle kiss, trying to pour all of my passion and love into a soul that I knew was as hungry as my own. When the kiss broke, I took her face between my hands and pressed my lips to each of her closed eyes, then kissed her forehead; a promise to cherish. A promise to protect. 

     Then, feeling as though I ran myself through with a sword, I turned my back and walked away. I trudged up the stairs, so world-weary as my burdens, temporarily lifted by love and its ecstasies, settled on my shoulders once more. I rested my hand on the door latch, preparing to open it when I heard, down in the cellar, an anguished sob...my lover and my life suffering a different form of grief. 

      _Thank you for what we have been granted,_ I whispered a prayer to the maker, then opened the door knowing that, when I was alone in my quarters, I, too, would weep. 

     I would cry for the beauty of a moment stolen, and for the grief born from knowing that my lover lived. To my mind, it seemed it would be easier if a lover had gone to the Maker's side. There would be pain, there would be sorrow, but there would be solace in knowing that the one you loved was at peace. Instead, Rylie and I lived with the torture of knowing that we lived, knowing that we loved, seeing each other every day and being denied touch, speech, and presence. I would weep for a love imprisoned and a personal pleasure and fulfillment denied for the good of Thedas. But I would also weep...

      _...I will also weep for joy. Joy that my lips touched hers, that my hands brought her pleasure, that I could breathe whispers of love and affection against her ears. My tears shall be as my life. Bitter. And sweet._


	11. The Left Hand's Duties

** Hawke's **   **Manor** **  
** **Leliana**

     "I despise that man." I stood outside the Hawke estate and my voice whipped through the air, the vehemence in my tone shocking even me. I did not care. I needed to speak those words. 

     When Aveline entered the room with Anders in two, I'd retired to the corner and hid my face. I did not want him to see me, for our past acquaintance had been fractious and troubled. As fortune would have it, my concealment was unneeded, for tending to Ryker Hawke had taken all of Anders' focus. My opinion of him nearly changed the slightest bit for the better when I saw his obvious care for the woman, and the skill with which he wielded his healing magic. 

     That change of opinion lasted for all of a shall breath. 

* * *

      _Anders finishes his diagnostic spell and nods his head in unvoiced thought. In the shadows, he cannot see me, but I watch_ ** _him_** _with intent. His eyes have changed color. When I knew him in Amaranthine, they were an unremarkable shade of green, but now they shone out in his face, a strange and luminescent shade of blue. I wonder if it has anything to do with the spirit that he harbors inside of his body, but I cannot be certain. After all, Wynne's symbiotic spirit had not changed her physical body in any way, and her situation was the only knowledge I had of a willing cohabitation with a Fade spirit._

_"She's lost a great deal of blood." Anders speaks as though he is relaying new information, as though he did not hear everything that Kathyra has told him about Hawke's tenuous state. "Five of her ribs are broken. How did that happen?"_

_"Why were you not there to bear witness?" Aveline asks and in her words and voice there is a chill that would freeze the sea through. "All of us who call her friend watched her fight for our lives and for this city. Even the vacuous strumpet Isabela did not close her eyes."_

_"But you ran." Sebastian takes over the upbraiding. "You ran to save your own life."_

_"So that I could save **hers**." Anders bites back as he pulls the sheets off of Hawke's unconscious body to examine her and begin his healing spell. _

_Aveline makes a disgusted noise. "I found you in Darktown. Cowering in your clinic."_

_" **Healing** **!** " Anders shouts in his defense. "I was  **healing** the injured!"_

_"Were you?" Avline quirks a disbelieving eyebrow. "You were alone when I found you. There were none outside your door, and **you** were in your closet."_

_"I've seen how you look at Hawke." Fenris speaks in his growling baritone. "I've watched you prance and pander before her like a child begging attention, and seen your eyes flare in anger when you gaze on Isabela. You ran like a coward, but you could at least have done honor to your promise to be her friend and healer and come **here** , knowing it was where we would bring her."_

_"I had to gather supplies." Anders's mutters to himself and I shake my head, remembering the arguments between this man and Salem._

_**My warden was never one to raise her voice in anger when it could be avoided. But speaking with this man drove her to the point of shouting, screaming, threatening violence...but she continued to give him changes, to help him make the most of his life as a Grey Warden. Her mercy ended in ill-fortune for herself...and now for Ryker Hawke.**_

_"You're empty handed, Anders." Even the gentle Dalish elf speaks of the mage's wrongs. "You brought no tonics, no tinctures, no bandages. Ryker is alive thanks to the kindness of strangers."_

_Anders frowns and glowers as he cuts through the bandages on Hawke's torso. "The kindness of butchers." He growls as he looks at the mess of Hawke's side._

_The Arishok's blade had torn through the skin, breaking her ribs and chipping pieces of bone. My physician found the shards and pulled them from Hawke's body. She'd cleaned the horrific wound as best she could, though the pain of sterilizing the injury had made the unconscious Hawke  open her eyes and **shriek** in unmitigated agony before her eyes rolled back and she collapsed against the pillow. Kathyra had been forced to use hot irons to sear Hawke's skin together before she bled out. _

_The stench of burning flesh had made Sebastian retch and he fled the room. Had I not borne witness to countless injuries worse than this...had I not felt my own skin cauterized by the red-hot irons...I, too, might have lost control of my body. Instead, I cradled Hawke against me as Kathyra used the most brutal of ways to mend the riven flesh. She had been forced to do so, for we had no mage to heal Kirkwall's champion, and Hawke lost a dangerous amount of blood. At the end, when Kathyra finished stitching the deep gash across Ryker's buttocks and thigh, my physician had taken a sharpened, hollow reed, and asked me to pierce her lovely skin so that she might share her own blood with Kirkwall's champion._

_**After Salem was wounded by Bann Esmerelle, after Kathyra saved my warden's life and Wynne arrived, the senior enchanter told me something that broke my heart. Kathyra gave her blood to Salem and, even though it did not bear the taint, my warden's body did not reject it. Wynne informed me that Kathyra possessed a rare blessing from the Maker; that her blood could be placed in any other's veins and they would accept it as their own.**_

_"This is going to leave a terrible scar." Anders growls. "Not even magic can prevent that from happening now." He looks up from the wound, his lips curled in a snarl of disdain. "She will be marred for life...hideous even." He sounds appalled and I want to strike him, for I had loved a woman more scar than flesh, and found her all the more lovely and desirable for her flaws. Anders looks to Kathyra. "You did this?" He asks, and she nods. Fury sparks in blue eyes that should not be blue. "Why would you do such a thing!?"_

_Kathyra's jaw tightens, the sole sign of her anger and frustration. "Because I am no mage and no coward." She replies, cool and placid, making me love her all the more. "Because I honored Ryker Hawke's bravery and saved her life, in spite of the fact that I must use rudimentary tools. I cannot stop the blood gushing from a severed vein with a thought, nor mend torn flesh with the power in my hands. She will wear a scar, but she will be alive and that is **my** tribute to her heroism. All you are good for now is cleaning the remains of the damage you allowed to happen."_

_"You're a ham-handed pretender." Anders hissed. "Healing is the gift of magic. It is not a skill able to be learned by the hands of a mere mortal."_

_"Healing **was** the gift of magic." Kathyra corrects him. "But hands that can heal are required in this world, and too many with your gift bear your same heart. Self-aggrandizing, filled with greed and made of cowardice. You would not risk your own life to save your friend and, make no mistake, we nearly lost her many times. You cannot, in earnest, locate a place that puts you high enough to speak down to me."_

_"You are a stranger in this house." Anders seethes. "You've no right..."_

_"She has every right to be here, and is no stranger in my eyes." Aveline rumbles, her long friendship with Hawke granting seniority over Anders' relationship to the champion._

_"In **our** eyes." Merrill offers her support, and that of all the others. _

_Instead of using her acceptance by the others to anger and continue her confrontation with Anders, Kathyra rises from where she has knelt beside Hawke._

_"Heated words in a sickroom are more dangerous than infection." She says, and my heart fills with admiration at the sight of her competence and control. "I was a stranger unto you until this day, so I will take my leave. Guard Captain, I have left a store of willowbark and feverfew with the servant Orana. Given the severity of Hawke's injuries and the amount of time it took to mend them, it is like that infection will follow and that Ryker will succumb to fever. Watch her with great care and manage her temperature, but let her burn for a day, as the fever will drive out infection."_

_"I will see to it." Aveline nods and Kathyra beckons me. "Physician," the Guard-Captain calls back and Kathyra turns, "from the reports my men have given me, I owe you two lives that I hold dear. Donnic and Ryker will live, thanks to you. If you ever have need, my sword is yours."_

_"I am grateful, guard-captain." Kathyra smiles. "Should you need me again, you can most often find me at the clinic in Lowtown."_

_I slip to my lover's side in silence, lifting her pack, for I know she is physically weak and mentally drained, and that the tools of her trade are heavy. We walk out of the estate, hand in hand, saying nothing until we pass through the door._

* * *

     "I believe I might even hate him." I growled, for it felt cathartic to voice my emotions. 

     Kathyra's green eyes fixed to mine. "You have a history with the warden-mage, I take it?" 

     I nodded. "Salem invoked the Right of Conscription and made Anders a Grey Warden so that he might have  _some_ freedom. She saved him from the shaving of his head and the apostate's mark. And he spat in her face, questioned her decisions, and, at the end...at the end, when he merged with a spirit of Justice, he threatened to kill my wif..." I trailed off, the vehemence of my emotions overtaking my memory of my current life and time and place.

     Kathyra's eyes were eloquent in their pain. It was a pain she would never speak of...the pain that came from knowing that she loved me in a different way than I loved her. Both of us knew where our souls rested, but Kathyra gave me more than I could grant her. She focused on what love she had left, the full measure of the heart that she could give, and imparted it to me. She did not often speak of Giselle...not in the way I spoke of...

     "Salem." I amended my words. "He threatened to kill Salem, and I believe he would have, had their paths ever crossed again."

     "I understand." Kathyra murmured. "But Ryker does need a mage to care for her, and you know that Meredith will not send one, no matter the rank or station of one who begs."

     I bit my lip as I examined my physician. Her eyes were listless and tired, her hair lank and damp with sweat. Her shoulders were knotted and I could see the crease between her brows that indicated a great pain in her back from bending over and tending Hawke's unconscious form. The sleeves and breast of her shirt were stained with blood, the same blood that made her skin sticky, along with the sweat that had dried on her body. Bright crimson stained the bandage around her elbow and I knew her too well. She had given Hawke more of her own blood than she should have spared. 

     I drew close to her and wrapped her in my arms, feeling the shuddering of her frame from exhaustion and blood loss. The cheek that rested against mine felt cold to the touch, but fresh sweat trickled down her face and neck, gathering in the hollow of her elegant throat. Kathyra gave so much...too much...more often than she should. 

      _No one heals the physician..._ her old words from a different time whispered through my mind. 

      _That will not be the case on this day,_ I vowed. 

     "Lean on me." I whispered, holding her close. "I will take you back to the clinic and draw a bath for you and brush the tangles from your hair and clean the blood from your skin. I will cook a meal to help replenish the blood you have lost. And, after you eat, you will lie down and I will rub your back and shoulders with wintergreen oil to alleviate the aches in your muscles. Then I shall hold you and we will sleep and recover from the rigors of this dreadful day."

     I drew away from our embrace and studied Kathyra with great care. I could see the longing in her eyes and knew that my words appealed to her. I could also see that she would not be returning to the clinic with me, and I believed that I knew why. 

     "I love you, Leliana Cousland." Kathyra declared, delicate and warm. "But my heart will not rest and neither will my body until I find the man who saved your life. He preserved the most precious thing in my world. I cannot recover from this day until..." She went another shade of pale and swayed on her feet. 

     I wrapped my arm about her waist before she could fall, my heart kicking in my chest with worry. "Kathyra..."

     "...until I know that he is all right." My stubborn physician finished her sentence and I knew there was no persuading her to wait until the morning to search for the man who had selflessly taken two arrows for me. 

     "Very well then." I kissed her temple, tasting the salt of her sweat on my lips and tongue. "I will go with you. Two are better than one."

     Kathyra shook her head. "You cannot, Leliana." She said, and a coal of worry and anger began burning in my chest. 

     "Darling," I tried to reason with her, "it is taking all of your strength to remain standing. You are chilled and trembling from blood loss. What if you collapse and no one is there to care for you?"

     "Then I collapse." She softened her words with a smile. "But you are not simply Leliana any longer." She reminded me. "You are the Left Hand of the Divine and you bore personal witness to the events of this day. It must be  _your_ words,  _your_ story that Justinia first hears, for you are the most trustworthy source of it in this wretched city. You must write the report quickly so that you remember it all as it truly happened. Go and do this, and I will start my search."

     I wanted to rebel against her words, to defy her wisdom in favor of my own desires...but she spoke the truth. I had new loyalties now, and it needed to be me who reported this day's events to the Divine. Meredith would report to the Lord Seeker, Orsino to the Grandmaster of the White Spire, and Elthina would also make her report to the Great Chantry. But Elthina hadnot been in the streets of Kirkwall. She had not seen the devastation caused and the fanatics who had used the chaos to enact their hatreds. She had not seen an embattled mage kill both the qunari that assailed them  _and_ their templar guard in order to escape.

     "Promise me that you will take care of yourself." I commanded my lover. "The day is still too hot, you are exhausted and...you're so pale, Kathyra." I reached up and stroked her cheekbone with the pad of my thumb. "So pale." I breathed. "I'm worried for you."

     Kathyra reached out and took her physician's bag from my hand. "I will keep care of myself, my love." She promised. "Now, we must both attend to our duties. I will return to the clinic as soon as I may."

     "I will wait for you and pray for your success." I whispered, falling in love with her yet again. 

     I gave her a parting kiss and moved down the stairs, walking towards Lowtown and our clinic. I thought of my physician's honor, her compassion and caring. Once, I would have found those traits a sign of weakness, as Marjolaine did when she ran her older sister through with a dagger. But Salem had taught me that honor was more precious than gold, compassion powerful enough to move the world, and caring genuinely for another a more effective weapon than the sharpest blade. 

      _Maker, bring Kathyra home safely to me._ I prayed.  _I do not believe I can live without her...I do not believe I am strong enough to bear another lover's death._

 

 


	12. A Savior's Secret

**The Streets of Kirkwall** **  
** **Kathyra**

     I watched Leliana walk towards Lowtown, wanting to be with her, but, by the same turn, needing a moment to mull over the words she had said and the emotions she kindled. I did not have the right to be angry with her. I knew that, but knowledge and logic could never rule over the emotion and damnation that was love. 

     I sighed and shouldered my pack. I understood Leliana's bitterness. I would not deny that when a mage, a supposed  _friend_ of Ryker Hawke, possessed the  _gall_ to condemn the actions I took to save her life, I wished to lash out against him. It required years to learn the skills of a physician, but no matter how practiced I became, I would never be able to heal in the same manner as a mage. I had not been born with that gift and curse. I would forever be mortal, with naught but skill and knowledge to attempt what, for so long, had been relegated to the realm of the arcane. 

      _Some scars are unavoidable, even with magic,_ I thought, remembering Leliana's body. A mage had ministered to the wounds she received in Orlais' dungeons, but she still bore the reminders of her torture imprinted in her skin. Worse, even than Leliana, was the landscape of scarring that had been the body of Salem Cousland. Born with a resistance to healing magic and determined to bear the burden of the Blight, she had been torn open more times than a human being should have been able to survive. 

      _Another thing she and Leliana possessed in common,_ I kicked a stray pebble in the street with more force than necessary.  _They survived things that would have **killed** another and, if it did not kill them, leave them physically and emotionally broken for the rest of their lives. However, both of them healed. Then one of them died, leaving a scar of another sort in Leliana's heart. A kind that can never be mended in full. Not even by time. _

     I struggled to remind myself that I had no right to be angry. There were no set rules of grief. There were no limits to how long the heart could love. At the bast of the truth, Leliana made no error when she almost referred to Salem Cousland as her wife. Death did not sever a marriage vow, it simply made it impossible to keep. It was  _all right_ that Leliana spoke of Salem in that way. It should not hurt. 

     It fucking hurt. 

      _Maker's blood-soaked breath, Kathyra,_ I railed at myself.  _I am not a child and I **refuse** to allow my thoughts to transform me into one. We are all allowed to grieve in our own way, and I am longer separated from my loss than Leliana is from hers. Even were that not true, she corrected herself and she did not do that because she believed it to be false. She corrected herself because she loves me, because she did not want to  **hurt** me and, like a  **fool** , I am still hurt. _

     I shook my head to clear it, in order to focus on the reason I still walked in the streets. I needed to find the man who saved Leliana. The man who kept me from ending this day in tears and with another broken heart. Even if I were to find him dead, I could at least save him from the mass burning of the corpses...give his death some honor. I hoped even more to find him alive. 

      _Though the arrow wounds alone might have killed him, especially if he reacts like most fools and, in his panic, pulled them out. He would shred his insides with even an attempt._

      The thought made me walk faster and I attempted to ignore the tragedy surrounding me and find the man I sought. However, the qunari attack had taken its toll on the city. All faces were pale; all eyes haunted. People moved through the streets clinging to each other, not speaking, as though they wished to be ghosts. The cobblestones were splotched with dried blood and I saw several wagons burdened with the bodies of the dead being cleaned from the streets. I did not want Leliana's savior to be there, lifeless flesh pressed against lifeless flesh in a sickening efficiency that offered the deceased no respect. 

     I searched through the carnage, finding no sign of the man as Hightown became Lowtown. I shivered as the sun crept lower in the sky. Leliana was worried for me...not without good reason. I  _had_ given Hawke more blood than I should have, but she needed it, and no mage had been present to see if any of her other companions might have been able to do the same. 

     Through the labyrinth of Lowtown I walked, bypassing the Hanged Man where those who survived worshiped their god with cheap whiskey and stale ale. The air filled with bawdy, raucous songs and sloppy racist slurs against the qunari. A schnockered man stood atop a table, bellowing at the top of his lungs the tale of Hawke dueling the Arishok. Those listening sang of her bravery, but they did her no honor. 

     To honor Hawke would require them to bestire themselves from their drink and make something more of their small, small lives. To honor her would require them to open their eyes and see that a darkness resided in the City of Chains: the pall of fear and the radical need to control both the fear itself  _and_ the progenitors of that fear. With the viscount dead, Meredith would strike. She controlled the mages. She controlled what the people of Kirkwall feared. This city would place itself into her clutches and damn itself with a whisper of praise on its lips. 

     I shook my head and pressed on, not wishing to think about human-kind's seeming ingrained proclivity for self-stagnation and destruction. As I moved through the alleyways, the noise of the celebration of fools quieted down, allowing me to hear, on the edge of sound, a low growl, almost like that of a wounded animal. I quickened my feet and moved further into the alley. 

     Barely visible in the light of the setting sun, I saw a figure slumped against a dingy wall. The shirt they wore was stained red on the right side and I could see the fletching of an arrow protruding from his side. Two swords lay in slack hands, the fiery orange of the setting sun glinting off of the blades. His head hung low, his chin resting against his chest. I would have believed him dead save for the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of his diaphragm. In fact, the evenness of his breathing should not have been possible with the wounds he sustained. His ability to bear pain must have been beyond the comprehension of most mortals. 

     I slung my pack off of my shoulder and rushed to his side, kneeling down only to discover that my assumption had been wrong. The shoulders were broad, the height deceiving, but beneath the blood-drenched, loose shirt, I could see the outline of small, high breasts. The woman who saved Leliana had dark brown hair threaded through with silver, cut short in the style preferred by many of the men in Kirkwall. I could see nothing of her features due to the mask she wore; it began just below her eyes and covered the entirety of her face. 

      _The pain would have made it difficult to breathe. I do not know why she wears a mask, but it is doing her no favors. She needs to be able to breathe free._

     Gentle, I rested my hand on the broad shoulder and noticed, to my horror, the smear of blood trailing from her shoulder up the wall that she slumped against. The trail ended at about where her shoulder would rest, were she to stand at her full height. I looked down again to see an arrowhead protruding from just under the woman's right collarbone. 

      _Did she push herself against the wall to force the arrow through?_ I wondered, my question answering itself as I saw a broken off arrow shaft near her body. 

     "Are you awake?" I asked. "Can you hear me?"

     It took a moment, but the woman nodded. I reached for the knotted cloth at the back of her head so that I could undo her mask and allow her to breathe more easily. Many hours had passed since the skirmish and the time spent at the Hawke estate. She had wisely left the arrows in her body, effectively staunching the bleeding, but heightening her risk of infection. She must be in so much pain, and I owed it to her to alleviate that pain. I began to undo the knot, speaking to her all the while, attempting to impart some comfort and reassurance. 

     "You are going to be all right." I promised her, though I did not know enough of her condition to ascertain if I spoke the truth. "My name is Kathyra. I am a physician, working out of the clinic here in Lowtown. If you think you can walk, I will take you there to remove the arrows. With the help of my apprentices I could sedate you and you would be out of pain while I cared for you. I want...I want to ease your pain, for the woman you saved this day is very dear to me." The knot came loose and the mask fell away from her face. 

     I stared in shock, not wanting to believe what I saw, unable to deny what lay before my eyes. On the woman's cheek was stamped a scar, a beautiful indigo and scarlet scar made by a kiss of dragon's fire against her skin. I knew this woman. I knew her to be dead. My hands went cold and panic and confusion tightened my throat while a starburst of hollow frost began to eat away inside my chest. 

     "I know who you are." A voice rasped, a voice that I did  _not_ recognize. It sounded like sandstone scraped against metal, a rough and broken thing. "You are a kind woman to seek me out, but you should spend your charity upon one who is worthy of it."

     I lost my voice. I could not move, not speak, could barely even think as I saw the woman I presumed dead, my lover's soulmate and wife, sitting before me, pierced with arrows. Arrows that she had taken in Leliana's stead, standing between the bard and danger as she...as she always had. It was no stranger that saved Leliana, but a dead lover, a ghost in the night, the woman that haunted Leliana's dreams, whose name she cried both in horror and in entreaty for rescue from her nightmares. 

     "Do not speak my name." Salem urged me, soft and low and deadly. "Do not breathe my presence to the world, and you will owe me nothing. Go back and forget what you have seen here."

     "I do not know what nightmare I have entered, but I will not malign my conscience and leave you here in obvious suffering." My words were hard but my hands were trembling and my mind on fire. "Salem..." Even speaking her name terrified me. 

     "Kathyra." Salem Cousland breathed my name and lifted her head, turning her closed eyes to mine. "Leave me."

     " _No_." I  _would_ know what was happening here. " _Look_ at me." I ordered her, struggling to keep control of myself and this horrific, unbelievable moment. 

     "You do not want that." She warned, but her closed eyes alone terrified me. From experience, I knew I would not be able to bear her scarred gaze for long, I needed to see it. I needed further proof. 

     "Please...just open your eyes." I entreated. I had to see. The scar on her face could only belong to one woman, but I  _needed_ to know if this vision was true. I needed to see the scars inside her eyes, the chilling glimpse of mortality and death that made her gaze so difficult to bear. 

     "You will regret this." Salem's eyes opened, a stunning, riveting silver-blue. 

     A silver-blue that held the shrieking, despairing, rapacious depths of hell. 


	13. The Burden of Truth

**The Streets of Kirkwall** **  
** **Salem**

      _Salem, all I know...all I know, in this moment, is the sheer magnitude of her love for you. Because I...I cannot bear to look into your eyes._

     Kathyra said those words to me long, long ago, and she proved it yet again. The woman who demanded I open my eyes cast hers away, and I did not miss the slight shudder of apprehension that rippled through her body. I almost wished that it bothered me, but it did not. My first death scarred my eyes and those scars screamed of mortality. Those who met my gaze trembled, for they saw in it the promise that death is no respecter of persons; that, someday, they would breathe their last and walk through the long dark and to the Maker's side. My eyes were the promise that all would make that journey, in time. 

     In those days, it had been difficult to meet my gaze, but those who knew me well could bear it. The scars in my eyes ceased to frighten Leliana after she became accustomed to them. However, the scars had changed. They were deepened and intensified to the level that I could no longer even bear my reflection. I had stood in paradise. I had spoken with my father, embraced my mother, laughed with my sister-in-law, swung my nephew into the air as we lived in a land without darkness and shadow. 

     Then, the sky went dark and, from the center of the swirling void descended a flaming talon. Razor claws pierced me through, my heart and stomach were impaled, and I blackened paradise with my screams of pain. As my soul was shredded by the hand of a spiteful god, I relived every moment of pain, every injury ever received, emotional and physical and, when I found myself once more imprisoned in my body, when I looked upon my reflection, I bore witness to what my eyes had become. My own gaze imprinted with every torture ever experienced, every grief that brought me to my knees. I saw Leliana leaving me in the Frostback Mountains, relived Loghain's whips tearing me to pieces in Rendon Howe's dungeons, endured all the wounds dealt me by the Archdemon. In my eyes lived the agony of watching my mother slain, holding my once-lover's dead body in the streets of Highever, cradling my nephew's tiny corpse, burning alive when I drank the tainted blood of the Joining. 

     I witnessed every hell I had walked through when I met with my reflection. However, this curse was not mine alone to bear. When another's eyes met mine, they relived and experienced  _their_ torments. Within my gaze lay a portal to the abyss and I could not ease it for them. I could not change it. I wounded everyone with a glance and could do nothing to remedy their pain. To look at another flayed my soul and cracked my shoulders with a guilt so profound it could not be properly defined. 

     I watched the physician rummage through her pack, in awe of the woman's kindness. The first time she saved my life, she had been in love with Leliana. She could have let me die, and those of a lesser heart would have. But not Kathyra. Hers was a heart that possessed a strength so beyond understanding that she laid her own dreams and emotions on an altar and slit their throat. She would have done so forever, I knew. If Leliana had not reciprocated her emotions, Kathyra would have taken the torch she carried for me...for  _the_ bard, and doused it, even if she snuffed it with her own tears. 

      _But I know Leliana. Without love and without faith her heart will asphyxiate and her soul will perish. And she has **so** much love within her, bright and radiant as the sun. I knew...I knew when I went to my Calling that Leliana would return to the Chantry. And I knew that, given time, her heart would be able to love again, and that a strong, kind woman waited with the patience of a saint, who would be willing to take Leliana's heart in her hands. I knew Leli would be cared for...would be loved. She is loved and that...that is all that matters. That  **must** be all that matters. _

     Kathyra lifted a small healer's knife, the blade honed to a delicate angle. She studied the tool for a moment before turning to me, keeping her eyes averted. She threw the knife into her pack and wrapped her hand around the shaft of the arrow impaled in my side. 

     "How could you!?" She shouted, pushing the arrowhead deeper into my body. 

     A raw scream peeled out of my throat and I doubled over until my forehead pressed against my bent knees. I struggled to gather enough breath to answer, for I knew the source of Kathyra's anger. I managed to breathe through the pain, parting my lips to speak when, inside my punctured body, came a bladed  _twist_ of metal against muscle and vein and I  _shrieked_ , the sound echoing in the alleyway and ringing in my own ears. I could feel my blood pounding through my veins and it began to seem as if that blood were replaced with  _acid_. 

     "How could you lie to Leliana and falsify your own death!?" Kathyra accused me and her words neither angered nor shocked me. 

      _The gods do not reach into the land of the dead and make them living once more. If they did, then surely the Maker would have taken Andraste's soul and imbued her bones with flesh once more. I am willing to admit that I look the villain who lied. The villain who, for reasons unknown, put my wife through the torture and torment of losing a lover._

     "Do you not know how she  _grieved_ for you!?" Kathyra continued her tirade, punctuating her wrathful question with agonizing jostles of the arrow inside me. "Do you not know that she grieves  _still_!? Where have you been these last years, Salem Cousland!?" She demanded to know, giving the arrow a sharp pull backwards that made the world dim and drowned me in pain so stark I nearly fainted. "Did another claim your heart, you undeserving, split-tongued, black-hearted  ** _bitch_**!? Did you  _falsify_ your death to shed the  _burden_ of your  _loving, beautiful, **devoted WIFE!?**_ " 

     I said nothing, struggling again to breathe, gasping in fretful, uneven rising and falls of my chest. Kathyra tightened her grip around the blood-slick shaft of the arrow. "Tell me," she growled, "tell me  _why_ I should not just take my vengeance now for the pain you put her through!? Tell me why I should not just run you through with this arrow and  _slit your **lying throat**_!!!"

     I gathered what little strength I had left to face her. "Would you?" I asked, not to taunt her or to mock her but in earnest, honest inquiry. "Kathyra, I beg of you, please do."

     The knuckles of the hand that held the arrow turned white with the force of the physician's grasp, but in her eyes I could see justified, righteous anger beginning to be diluted with confusion. 

     "What?" She asked, her Orlesian accent reminding me so much of Leliana's that tears came to my eyes. 

     "You sought me out to show me kindness." I rasped, feeling thick trails of blood slipping down my chilled skin. "I beg you now for mercy. Perhaps it is mercy I do not deserve, but your calling bids you to ease suffering, does it not?" She gave a slight nod, bewilderment in the movement, confusion stamped on her features. "Please, ease my suffering, Kathyra. Please end my life."

     "What, by the Maker's twisted grace, are you saying?" Kathyra asked. "Is it only now, when you are faced by someone who knows you  _and_ of your wrong-doing, that you beg for death to alleviate my suspicion?"

     "I am no bard, Kathyra." I coughed and groaned as the pain deepened, seeping into my bones. "I play no games with hearts and emotions. My sole wrong-doing..." I coughed again and the agony of it caused me to scream behind gritted teeth, "...was that I died. I had no say in living again, and I cannot pierce my own heart or cut my own throat but you," I reached out and covered her white-knuckled hand with my blood-stained one, "you can and...and if you love Leilana as I know you do, you will grant me the death I ask for."

     Without making eye contact, I watched her. The hand gripping the arrow shaft loosened, and the soft light of realization came to rest across her features. No one who had falsified their death would beg for the reality of it, not even to escape one who had learned of their sin. But I had started the nail and needed to hammer it home, to make Kathyra understand. 

     "You saw," I paused as a chill shook me, awakening further the agony of the arrows, "my love for her. You know that our spirits were linked in eternity's bond. Leliana  _felt_ me die, just as I felt us severed when a darkspawn's blade ran me through." I rested a hand over my heart and pulled down my shirt, showing Kathyra the ragged scar across the vital organ. "Here." Kathyra's eyes widened as she witnessed the wound that no one could survive, even with a mage's immediate intervention. "And, if I loved another, would I have kept the remnants of a love I supposedly no longer wanted?" I asked. "Would I bear these swords that were her gift to me? Would I not have severed this finger?"

     I extended my left hand to Kathyra, that she might bear witness to what I spoke of. I had died beneath the earth, unburied, where the darkspawn, rats, and deepstalkers might gorge themselves on my flesh. I had no knowledge of the manner in which Flemeth had brought me back, rebuilt my body, or siphoned the taint from my blood, but I did not know that she had not taken the greatest of care. The rink with which Leliana swore her marriage vow to me could no longer be removed. I could still see the dark outline of the silver band beneath the skin. The sole part of the ring that remained above the skin, able to be touched of itself, was the nightingale in flight. It looked more akin to a Rivaini body piercing than a wedding band. 

     Kathyra lowered her gaze, removed her hand from the arrow shaft and from beneath mine, and pulled her bag closer to her. "I do not know." She murmured. "Would you have?"

     "I have done nothing by halves in the entirety of my life." I reminded her, knowing that she had no choice but to believe it as I said it, for Leliana would have confirmed my every word. I fixed my eyes on the physician. "Dead or living, Leliana is my last love. There is no more room in my heart, for she has taken it all. Even if I had but pretended to die, it would not have been for love of another. For if I did not love her, would I be in this alley, unable to move, with two arrows stuck inside my flesh?"

     "This makes no sense, Salem." Kathyra shook her head, her ash-blonde waves swaying with her movement. "The dead do  _not_ return. They do not walk among the living once more in the flesh. It is simply against the laws of the Maker and nature."

    I leaned back against the wall, hissing in the discomfort that, for another, would have curled them into themselves and wrenched constant screams from their throats. I simply had too much experience with and knowledge of pain. 

     "Human kind worships the Maker." I let my arms fall to my sides, limp, as it strained me too much to move them any longer. "However, the fact that we place our faith in her does not mean that the gods whom other races and creeds worship are false gods. These gods are not gods of love like our Maker. They can be vengeful, spiteful...even fearful of what they foresee. Perhaps it is this fear that drove one of them to action; made them pierce a hole in heaven, thrust my soul back into its body, and infuse that prison of flesh with a life it should not possess."

     "There are no tales or legends of resurrections." Kathyra argued, not questioning my giving the Maker of Thedas a feminine pronoun. We knew the truth that history had altered. 

     "Before me, there are no tales of a warden surviving the slaying of an Archdemon." I countered, keeping my tone gentle, finding it harder to do the more I spoke. I had not said this many words together in the months I had lived again. 

     Kathyra pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and sighed. "I can no more grant the gods their powers than I can disbelieve your tale." She admitted. "And since I cannot disbelieve, I suppose that I should apologize for the accusations I made against you."

     "No." i shook my head, wishing for water to cool my abused voice. "You did not speak amiss, Kathyra. In fact, you spoke to me exactly as you should have. I thank you."

     The physician's face became a study in incredulity. "For what?" She asked, sharp. "Reviling you? Forcing this arrow into your body and twisting it so as to torture you?"

     I shook my head, then tilted it back and closed my eyes. My mind conjured the dream, the dream of Leliana. Her face emerged from the shadows in perfect clarity. The artistic height of her cheekbones, her full lips that wore a teasing, perfect smile. The sculpted arc of her brows, elegant line of her jaw, her fiery halo of hair, and the ocean eyes that were damnation and salvation existing in the same, exquisite moment. I loved this woman. I loved her with all of the heart and soul and hope that I had left. 

     "No." I answered Kathyra's question at last. "I thank you for loving her so well. For caring for her and cherishing her beautiful heart. For touching her scars with reverence and passion and making her feel whole when she rests beside you in the dark."

     "Your mind is ill, Salem." Kathyra's voice bore a ruthless, bladed edge. "What do you ask of me with that gratitude? That I step aside and give her back to you? If you wish that, then do me the courtesy of asking in plain language."

     I managed a breathy laugh. "That is all I want in this world, Kathyra." I gave her the truth as ever I had. "But I will not ask it of you, nor will you tell Leliana of seeing me this night. You cannot speak of it and, if you tell me that you will, I will use my last strength to cut out your tongue."

     "You blighted martyr." Kathyra huffed. "All you want in the world and you will not take it? Even if a god dragged you back from the Golden City, you would still be human. You cannot make me believe that you will not seek out Leliana; that you will not tear her away from me."

     "Yes, I can." I replied, darkness filling my voice. "You said yourself that there exist no tales of resurrection. However, it is possible, and my living is proof of it. The Maker herself handfasted Leliana and me, Kathyra. The maker  _herself_ smiled down on the love of a warden and a bard and consecrated it. Then, I died. I died because of the taint in my blood. A taint that is no longer there. What do you think will happen if Leliana sees that I am alive?" 

     Kathyra said nothing, simply removed several packets of herbs from her pack, pouring careful measurements into a mortar and grinding them together into a paste. 

     "She will know that her beloved Maker could have spared me." I answered my own question. "She will know that her Maker  _allowed_ me to die in spite of both our prayers that begged the god of love for..." tears slipped down my cheeks, "...for more time. Her faith will shatter, Kathyra, and her faith is so very important, so very vital to who she is. I will not destroy the woman I love, and neither...neither will you."

     Kathyra looked up from her work, caught my eyes, and quickly turned away. "I do not care  _what_ you say." She stated. "You are  _not_ human."

     I remembered Leliana looking at me with the same expression Kathyra wore. I remembered her anger and her passion and her pleas that I act and be more human. I never knew the proper way in which to respond. I still did not. So I spoke now as I did then. 

     "As you say."


	14. Beautiful, Human Inhumanity

** The Streets of Kirkwall   
** **Kathyra**

     I did not know what to feel. I did not know what to think. I did not know anything anymore. I sat before a woman I knew to be the paragon of honesty, and listened to a thing I did not know if I could believe. The gods no longer interfered in the affairs of mortal men. The Maker had been the last, and she had long been silent. She allowed her story to be twisted and mangled and had done nothing. The Maker spoke to Leliana, this was something Salem and I both knew to be truth...but did that mean that the other gods had awakened and begun moving in and altering the world? 

      _The Chantry would have us believed that there is but one God, and that it is the Maker. But if that is the truth, how is it that an archdemon still rises from the Black City and sets against us the dark and twisted enemies of Thedas? Perhaps a god did bring Salem Cousland out from death and back into the world of the living. How can I disbelieve Salem when I believe what Leliana says to me of the Maker and of her visions? How can I disbelieve the scar through Salem's heart?_

     "Does it matter what you believe, Kathyra?" Salem asked, as if she could read my thoughts. "I thought that, once, what I believed shaped the world in some way; altered it, perhaps. But those were the thoughts of a child who still believes that they can change the world. The thoughts of a child who believes that change can be made without the shedding of blood, and that freedom can be bought with altruism and good intentions. It is not so. We are forever slaves, save for those blissful, divine moments in which we love."

     I did not know how I could fear a woman, respect a woman, and feel torn asunder by her words all within the space of a breath. Salem spoke of love and she had fought for it, bled for it, and she had...she had  _died_ for it. I knew the story of Salem Cousland with intimacy, had penned every tale that fell from Leliana's lips. I knew why my bard still loved this woman...I saved Salem's life once before, at the cost of my own heart. I did not know if I had it within me to heal her once again...at the cost of  _her_ heart.

     She begged for death, and, for the first time as a physician, I did not know if I should mend her wounds or grant what she asked for. There were many occasions where others made the same request of me. To ease their passage to the Maker's side so that they might be free from the pain. I had never listened, always fighting against death, for life was sacred to me. But Salem Cousland did not ask for death so that she might be free from pain. She was not that sort of woman. She asked for death so that she might keep others from suffering. 

      _How are you real?_ I wondered as I had wondered five thousand times during my chronicling of the Fifth Blight.  _What do I make of you? How do I heal you...how do I, in good conscience, return to the woman I love and destroy her faith by telling her that the one who holds her soul once again breathes in this world? How do I not? Maker, help me now._

     "Go." Salem rasped, leaning her head further against the wall, clenching her jaw, holding back what I knew were waves of agony...waves I compounded in my own anger. "Your conscience will do you no kindnesses here. So allow me to silence it.  _Go_ , Kathyra. Return to her. Love her and forget me."

     "Maker damn you." I hissed, for her words gave me conviction. "I cannot, Salem. A part of my heart wishes that I could bu tit is...it is  _your_ life and I cannot be the one to end it. Not  _your_ life. Anyone else, perhaps, but...but not you."

     "Oh?" The question rang, defeated, and her shoulders flexed with a chuff of air expelled from her lungs. "Then there is to be no mercy." The words stung, but somehow I felt they were not meant for me. "Very well, physician." Salem spoke. "Attend to your calling. Mend the flesh too often riven. Heal the body too often battered. Repair the shield of all the world and cast me into darkness yet again."

     The words pierced me and again I felt anger kindle in my spirit. "You've no right to beg for mercy. Have you any measure of knowledge of the many who have gone before, the countless who would sacrifice everything they have in order to be given life again?"

     "Yes." Salem whispered. "There are so many." Her rasping voice sounded like a haunting, like the bitter, cold winds that whispered through the Fallow Mire. "There are so many more willing, more deserving. Those for whom breath once more within their lungs would be...would be a blessing."

     Ignoring her words, for the moment, I reached into my pack and pulled out the dwarven light crystal that Leliana gave me. I could not take Salem to the clinic, nor would I drag her into the drunken chaos of the Hanged Man. I would have to care for her here, on the street. Rubbing the crystal between my hands caused it to illuminate, and I affixed it to a slot in a leather band that I placed around my forehead. 

     In the light of the crystal, Salem looked much worse. The indigo smudges beneath her eyes were darker than any I'd seen. Her eyelids were swollen and rimmed red with exhaustion. Her fair skin glistened with the slick of sweat, and she was several shades too pale. Moreso than I. The scar on her cheek stood out in stark relief, the kiss of a dragon marking the woman whom the gods would not let die. The woman whom my lover's soul belonged. The dried blood on her shirt looked garish and frightening, made moreso by the arrows still lodged inside her body. 

     "Maker, what a mess." I muttered, reaching out and grasping the arrowhead protruding from beneath her collarbone. "Prepare yourself. This is going to..."

     "What does not?" She interrupted, and I shook my head. 

     More than most would have lost consciousness by now. The longer a foreign object remained beneath the skin, the more pain it became as the body attacked it, causing inflammation that worsened with each passing moment. Salem's shirt covered her body, but I knew that, beneath the cloth, her wounds were heated, swollen, and red. Because of the time she allowed the arrows to remain, I would have to take many more precautions to ensure that her injuries did not fester and become infected. It would not be pleasant. 

     "I almost do not wish you to remove them." Salem broke the silence and my concentration. I glanced up and nearly made the mistake of meeting her gaze before turning my eyes back to the arrow. 

     "Whyever would you wish such a thing?" I inquired, placing two fingers on either side of the arrowhead, making sure that the tip rested against my palm so that with one smooth, firm pull, I could extract it. 

     "Because I held her again." Salem whispered, the reverence of pure love resonating in her broken, cracking voice. "I felt the warmth of her in my arms even as the arrows struck and it was...it  _is_ all that I desire. The arrows hurt, but they remind me of that...that breath of bliss."

      _I do not know if I am terrified or heartbroken,_ I thought, struggling to focus on the task at hand.  _This is so different from the time before, where Salem's body lay broken and I confessed to her my love for Leliana...who belonged to her. But...but now Leliana is mine and Salem...Salem is still the one who bleeds. Yet I cannot offer her the comfort she gave me. I cannot make her the promise she gave me when I left her room that night._

 I made no reply, for there was nothing I could say. Instead, I gripped the arrowhead and, with a sharp jerk, pulled the arrow free. Salem's feet pressed against the ground, her back arched, and her lips parted in a wretched scream that I  _begged_ the Maker to never hear again. Fresh blood began to stain her shirt from the reopened hole in her body, but I could not apply pressure because she still twitched and thrashed in the throes of agony. 

 I had removed over a hundred arrows from the bodies of hunters, templars, soldiers, and civilian casualties. In the clinic, I had been able to give them a sleeping draft or poppy syrup to dull the pain. On the battlefield, I was forced to remove the projectiles as I did now, with nothing to mitigate the agony. Most of the patients were forced into shock by the pain, or they passed out from it, thrashing and screaming until their eyes rolled backward and they embraced oblivion. How Salem could endure this with nothing but gritted teeth and the occasional shudder after her initial reaction mystified me. I knew that she felt the pain...but she seemed to have found the ability to conquer it instead of letting it rule her. 

 "I need to remove the second arrow, Salem." I told her, dreading it. In my rage I had driven it further, twisted it, and it would be exceedingly difficult to withdraw. "I cannot clean or bind your wounds properly with your shirt on."

 She nodded. "Cut the cloth around the shaft, pull it over the arrow, and I will remove it...with your help, if you are not averse. I do not think I can do it...by myself." She pointed her chin at a wounded shoulder and I nodded, pulling my healer's blade out of my pack. 

 I cut through the cloth around the shaft and pulled it free, slipping it off the arrow. Salem winced as the dried blood that adhered to the material to her skin made it difficult to remove her clothing. I gave her a moment to gather her breath before wrapping my arm around her shoulders and propping her up, away from the wall. She worked her left arm through the sleeve, and even that small exertion caused sweat to break out on her forehead and her breath to come in harsh pants between clenched teeth. 

 Pitying her, I used my other hand to grasp the hem of her shirt and lift it up over her breasts and head, allowing her to lean back against the wall. Gentle, I pulled the shirt off of her right shoulder and down her arm. Salem hissed as fresh blood flowed from the hole in her body. My throat tightened as it had the first time I laid my eyes on the body of Salem Cousland. 

 _The woman is made of scars_ , I thought, remembering Leliana's tales of every injury her lover had taken, of every time Salem had defied death, and the fact that healing magic almost destroyed the warden. A true healing, quickly administered, could prevent scarring, but Salem Cousland could not endure being healed. Her body was a veritable legend of the times she had defied death, and, I realized, looking at the new, thick, vertical scars on her back and left breast, through her nipple, through her heart, the times she had died. 

     "I...I do not understand." I murmured. "If you were brought back from death, Salem, why was the wholeness of your flesh not restored? Why do you still possess every scar?"

     Salem reached up, covering the scar over her heart with her left hand. "So that Leliana will know I am truly her lover returned from death." She whispered. "So that it will sunder her faith and end every beautiful hope in her. Because one woman's sacrifice is another woman's damnation. The gods are cruel, Kathyra. Cruel as I do not wish to be."

     When those words left her lips, I knew that my decision was made. Leliana would not know of Salem's life from my lips. I would lie to the woman I loved at the request of the one woman that loved her as much, no... _more_...than I did. I thought of the passion in Leliana's voice when she spoke of the Maker, of how she rallied all of our spirits with her words of faith. Of how she aided me in keeping my sanity in the madhouse that was Kirkwall. 

      _I could not bear to see Leliana lose that faith and, because of that, I will bear the burden of this lie. Oh, Maker, I beg you to strike against whatever demented god thrust this torture upon your faithful warrior. I beg you to show Salem Cousland mercy...it seems no one else in this world has. Not even me._

     I reached into my pack and withdrew a tool I did not often use, and for that, I was grateful. Giselle had designed it specifically for the removal of an arrow from the soft tissue, in the moments when pushing it through the skin would do more harm than good; when it risked the puncture of a vital organ. It consisted of two flat spars of metal with rounded edges riveted together at the center, and the spars were attached to two circular handles. 

     "I need you to lie down on your uninjured side." I said, and she obeyed, her movements stilted and obviously pained. 

     I closed my eyes briefly, for I needed to control my emotions when I saw the scarred and tattered mess of her back. She and Leliana...both flogged for the crime of being innocent. They were a matched pair, body and soul, and I felt very much the interloper, holding a heart that did not belong to me. It belonged in the hands of a woman strong enough to deny her every want to ensure that the one she loved could retain her faith and, through faith, her innocence. 

     "Lie as still as possible." I ordered, lifting the tool. 

     Slow, I parted it just enough so that each spar rested against the shaft of the arrow, with the wood between them. With my free hand, I spread the skin around the projectile and worked the thin spars of metal down into the wound. Salem shrieked, and it echoed off of the stone, ricocheting into the night. The screaming did not stop as I continued, but it became muffled as Salem bit down on her wrist. At last, the tips of the spars came to rest on the arrowhead. 

     I paused and wiped sweat from my brow, looking down, expecting to see Salem unconscious. But her eyes were open and, slow, she removed her wrist from her mouth. I winced as I saw the deep marks left by her teeth, beads of blood welling from the indentions. I pitied her. I pitied her for her strength and yet through my pity was woven admiration. 

     I turned my attention back to her wound when the rasp of her voice, even more hoarse from screaming, sounded in my ears. 

     "Is she happy, Kathyra?" Salem questioned, a transcendent and passionate love in her simple, rasping query. 

     I shook my head, needing to ignore the question that pierced and savaged my own heart. Salem lay here, shuddering,  _bleeding, **suffering...**_ and all she could ask was if Leliana was  _happy_. My lover spoke true. This woman was  _not_ human. Could  _not_ be human.

     "You're doing well." I offered paltry, pathetic encouragement. "The worst will soon be over." I outright  _lied_. 

     Salem nodded and I grasped the arrow, then spread the spars until I felt the tips of them slip off of the arrowhead. Salem's fist struck the ground but she no longer had the energy or breath to scream. All that ripped out of her throat were desperate, agonized sobs. I removed the arrow but left the spars inside, keeping the wound open. I threw the projectile away in disgust as it came free from Salem's body. 

     Blood surged upwards out of the wound, flowing down Salem's back and abdomen in thick rivulets. I immediately reached into my pack for yet another implement I dreaded using. A bottle of clear, distilled alcohol. It was the strongest astringent that I possessed, but when poured into a wound it caused more pain than the entry or exist of what made the injury. I set it aside, needing to accomplish one more thing before I sterilized the punctures. I set it aside, needing to accomplish one more thing before I sterilized the punctures. 

     Using the spars to spread the wound a little farther apart, and directing the light of the dwarven crystal into the gash, I saw what I sought and reached into my pack. I felt around for various implements, attempting to ignore the hitched breaths and pained groans of my patient and, at last, locating what I sought. I withdrew an implement that looked much like the tool used by the fine ladies of Orlais to pluck their eyebrows, but it had been fashioned larger and longer and its purpose was the debriding of wounds. 

     "There is a piece of cloth in the wound, carried there by an arrowhead." I informed Salem, attempting to sound clinical and detached as I would be with any other patient. 

     Again, Salem nodded. I spread the wound once more and Salem made a noise like a wounded animal. It cut me straight to the core and I resolved to be done with it as soon as I could, for both our sakes. With sure, precise movements, I reached into the wound and withdrew the scrap of fabric. Salem's body shuddered once, violently, then she relaxed. 

     I dropped the blood-soaked fabric on the ground and reached for the alcohol, removing the cork with my teeth. I held it over the spread wound, holding a brief debate on whether or not I should warn her, or send her body into shock and unconsciousness so that she might know respite from the pain. I hung my head. I could not do such a thing. It would dishonor my calling. It would dishonor Giselle. It would dishonor Salem Cousland. 

     "I have to clean the wounds." I told her. "You must remain  _very_ still, as the astringent must remain in the wound longer than usual to prevent infection. Are you prepared?"

     "Yes." Salem replied, her voice nothing more than a whispery croak. 

     I breathed deep to steady  _my_ nerves, and poured alcohol into the wound until it spilled out of it. A high pitched wail broke from chapped lips that could speak of love like a poet, saint, and madman. Salem curled into a tight ball, somehow managing to keep the injured part of her body still. When the wail broken, an eerie silence descended; we could hear nothing but our own breathing. Then, the silence shattered. 

     "Does she..." Salem gasped, "...allow herself...to be happy?"

     The dagger in my gut twisted and my throat tightened as once more Salem baffled and devastated me. She was going to walk away. She would leave this alley and go...somewhere. I would return to the woman I loved and she would hold me, and we would kiss, and share each other's slumber. I owed Salem the answer. 

     "She does." I hoped my words comforted the woman who knew no mercy. 

     The warrior's body seemed to relax as I retrieved a boll of cotton from my pack, pressing it over the puncture to soak up the alcohol, blood, and the beginnings of infection that had been pushed out of the wound, as intended. That done, I prepared my needle and thread. Salem flinched at the first stitch. 

     "Does she...write music?"

     "Yes." I answered, gentle. 

     "Quote poetry?"

     "Yes."

     "Does she still...tell the ancient legends?" In Salem's voice lay a longing that no poet could capture, no author conjure, no mystic understand. 

     "She does." I murmured, my heart in a vice, in unequivocal pain for myself, for Leliana, for Salem. 

     The former warden turned her head and gazed at the sky. "Then she...kept her promises." I finished my stitching and the warrior coughed. "She did not...let my death...quench her spirit."

     I helped Salem sit back up, noticing, with a quick glance, that the hell in her eyes appeared glazed over. I had seen this expression countless times. She was so lost to the pain that she would feel nothing that I did to her any further. Those who journeyed to that place seemed to exist in a state of suspended consciousness, as though their spirits hovered between the Fade and the waking world. Some who ventured there, who had lost their limbs or watched their comrades die, never returned from this place. However, I knew that Salem Cousland would come back. 

     I took the alcohol again, pouring it into the entry wounds on her back and shoulder, feeling a slight chill when the warrior did not at all react. Her scarred blue eyes looked to the stars, her lips parted the slightest amount, then curled into the smile of the perfectly blissful and truly mad. 

     "I knew," She rasped as I began to stitch the ragged tears in her flesh, "that she...would find it...within herself...to love once more. I am...grateful...that it is you...who holds her heart." Salem's left hand reached up and she cupped my cheek. "A woman..." she breathed, "...of honor."

     "Please do not say such things." I begged her, unable to hear, bear, or contemplate her gratitude. 

     I felt a thief in my own home; felt that the love I would return to was stolen and sundered and yet...and yet Salem gave me her blessing. Salem asked me to return. Salem begged me not to tell. For the sake of the woman loved by us both. For the sake of a life that we both wanted to live, but that only one could. And the woman who had sacrificed everything time and time again did so once more. My heart hurt so badly I wished I did not possess one. 

     "Love her well, Kathyra." Salem adjured me. "Love her well. I beg you."

     "I shall." My lips trembled as I wound bandaging tight around her abdomen and shoulder. "I swear to you, I shall."

     Saying nothing more as I tied off her bandages, the warrior grabbed her shirt and pulled it over her head, leaving her right arm tucked inside it. Salem then rose to her feet, nearly knocking me over by the force with which she stood. I stared up at her, wondering where she had found the strength to stand. She turned as though to leave. 

     "Salem, wait." I called, and she turned to me. I reached into my pack and pulled out a small vial. "Poppy syrup." I extended it to her. "It will ease your pain."

     Salem Cousland, the Hero of Ferelden, the woman who held the soul of the Maker's newly called prophet, wife of the Left Hand of the Divine, shook her head, refusing the medicine. She knelt before me, reaching out and curling my fingers around the vial I held out to her in my palm. One glance at her eyes told me that she was back in our world; that she could feel every shrieking pang of her injuries. 

     "You denied me that which would ease my pain, Kathyra." Her words were raw and shredded. "There is but one thing that will spare me this anguish, but you did not let me die."

     Her words sent shivers down my spine and she rose to her feet once more, turning and stepping further towards the darkness of Lowtown. She paused where the alley emptied into the street and looked back at me. I was able to bear the gaze of her eyes at this distance, and in them I saw a pain more eloquent than instrument, quill, or bard could ever craft. The broad shoulders were stooped with agony, guilt, and exhaustion, and, even after my care, I did not know if she would see the next sunrise. 

     Her lips parted, her words rang clear as a clarion bell, and when what she spoke reached my ears I began to weep, for on the wind floated a single sentence that Salem Cousland  _alone_ could say at such a time as this, and mean it with the fullness of her heart. 

      _I forgive you, Kathyra._


	15. World Weary and Worn

**The Lowtown Clinic** **  
** **Leliana**

     Worry was an old friend. I knew it all too well. Much of my life had been punctuated with frenzied, frenetic intervals where my heart raced, dragging my mind with it. The imagination I trained to seduce and charm, when blended with the life I lived and the things I'd done, so often worked against me. It was not simply that I thought of those I loved in peril. No. Nothing so simple as that. 

     I could see the exact scenario play out in my mind, hear the words spoken, watch my greatest fears come to life with every sense involved and in presence. I could see the bright splash of blood upon skin, smell the sweat and steel and the acrid afterburn of magic. Because of this, when I heard the knock at our door, my heart leapt into my throat. My blood raced through my veins, burning as it coursed through my body. 

     My knees trembled as I approached the door, because I knew all too well how easily hope could be dashed against the cruel, bladed outcroppings of reality. However, I also knew that it did me no good to run. Whatever would happen, whatever might come, I could not avoid it by remaining behind a door. I no longer had the luxury of locking myself away, no matter how much I desired to. 

     I opened the door and rushed forward, wrapping my arm around Kathyra's waist. She sagged against me, her breath heavy, heated, and labored against my neck. She had more than over-extended herself; I could feel the tell-tale shudders through her body. I guided her towards the bed in the loft above the clinic that we called...something other than home. 

     "Sit down, love." I whispered, taking her heavy pack from her shoulder and setting it aside. 

     Upon my return from the Hawke estate, I had bathed, drawn water from the well to drink, and prepared a bath for Kathyra. The water would be tepid, but being able to clean the blood from her skin in the comfort of our loft would be infinitely preferable to frequenting Kirkwall's bathhouse, especially after a day such as this one. I poured Kathyra a cup of water and took it to her, kneeling down as she lifted the cup to her lips with a trembling hand. 

     Her eyes were flat and hazy, green like the color of the sky before a windstorm. Her pallor had worsened and it concerned me. I reached out and took her hand in mine, measuring the beat of blood at her wrist, finding it too fast and thready for my liking. That, and the dried blood on her skin and underneath her nails. We had left the Hawke estate with clean hands...

     "Kathyra," I drew her attention, "Kathyra are you hurt? Were you injured after we left?"

     "I'm not hurt." My physician mumbled, but her speech was slurred and her hand quavered as she reached out. Her fingers brushed the stiff, bloodstained cloth still wrapped around my neck. "You are. Let me...let me look at your neck."

     She fumbled at the knot and I rested my hand over hers, stilling her movement. Reverent, uncaring of the blood, I pressed my lips to the back of her hand. The pressure of the kiss and the slight tang of blood whispered through my senses, reminding me of Salem. So many of our kisses had been flavored with copper and salt. This was the first such kiss I had given Kathyra, and the gesture felt right, but the taste did not. The bliss stained with blood...this was not who we were. I would kiss my physician again, but never in a place with blood on the skin. That manner of intimacy, what it meant for me and  _to_ me, belonged to another. Forever. 

     "I'm all right." I tried to assure her. "But you do not look well, my darling. I've already washed, and I believe you should too."

     Kathyra shook her head, and even her swaying, ash-blonde hair looked exhausted. "Not until I make sure you are well." She whispered. 

     "Soon." I offered a compromise. "It will keep until you have washed and gotten out of those filthy clothes." I looked at her shirt, once white, now soaked and splattered with blood. Her trousers were no better. "We will have to burn them."

     Kathyra sighed. "Again?" The left corner of her mouth quirked up in the barest expression of mirth and I allowed it to hearten me. 

     I nodded and pulled the boots off of her feet, then eased down her socks. I winced at the sight of her feet. They were blistered and raw. Kathyra hissed in pain as the cloth pulled at the inflamed skin and I winced in sympathy, murmuring apologies. I stood and extended my hand. Kathyra took it and I helped her disrobe. 

     I paused for a moment, taking in the legend written in her body. Scars told the tales of a life lived, and, in Kathyra's mind, she had lived many lives in the course of her years in the world. Her life with me was her fifth, and from this life she bore no physical scar. But there were others, those like silvery lines in her skin from her youth, or the white, wide scars earned during her life as a bard. Those marks, however, were not the ones Kathyra valued. 

     She treasured the scars from her time with Giselle. These were the scars that, in the eyes of those who sought physical perfection, would be found grotesque. However, Kathyra and I understood the meanings of these imperfections, their necessity, and we shared the belief that the physical reminders of our wounds recalled to us our humanity. They made us better. Stronger. 

     Kathyra shivered in the cool evening air and I stepped forward, wrapping my arms around her bare body. I slid my hand up her side, allowing my palm to rest on a wide swath of raised scar tissue on her right side. My body bore this wound's twin and I knew that Kathyra would understand the placement of my hand; that she would translate from the touch the words I did not say. 

      _I have stood where you stand, loved where you have loved, and hurt where you have been wounded. I understand and do not judge. I understand and find you beautiful. I understand and you are free in my arms and in my love. Be at peace, beloved. Be at peace._

     I withdrew from the embrace and led Kathyra to the tub, helping her ease her legs over the side and slide down into the water. I wished for a moment to have the gift of a mage so that I could heat it and make her more comfortable. But, in spite of the lukewarm bath, Kathyra sighed in replete content. She reached for the soap and, once again, I stayed her hand. 

     "Allow me." I kept my voice low. "You have done so much for so many today. Let me, at least, grant you some small measure of comfort."

     I prepared for her to argue, but she did not. She leaned back against the tub, waiting for me. I shook my head to clear it, having to remind myself for the time whose number could not even be subjected to hyperbole, that Kathyra was not Salem. She would push herself to limits, but never consistently exceed them. If I wished to care for her, she would allow it without dissent. Her actions brought me joy in their own way, but they lacked that blistering, blissful, torrid, heavenly damnation that defined my love for Salem Cousland. 

     With Kathyra settled, I took the soap, dipped it into the water, and began to wash her weary, over-burdened shoulders. As much as I wished to allow her mind and body to rest, I needed to know. I needed to know if she had found the man to whom I owed my life. I parted my lips to speak when she cleared her throat and answered the question I did not ask. 

     "I found him." Kathyra's voice sounded more world-weary than ever I had heard. "I did...I did what I was able, worked as fast as I could, cursed death and spat in its face but I...I..." Kathyra turned and looked at me, her green eyes sparkling with tears, a gaze filled with guilt and shame, "...I lost him, Leliana." She whispered. "I lost him."


	16. The Lie Told for Love

** The Place Not Home   
** **Kathyra**

     The expression of concern on Leliana's face melted away, replaced by an empathy so sweet and soft that my heart broke along its old fault lines. She, who was trained to spot the liar, to pick them from a crowd and destroy their fabricated defense until they could not stand, believed me. She believed me because I did not lie to her...and before this day, that had been the truth. Before this day, I had been one of two who had never deceived my bard. 

      _And now the second lies for the sake of the first,_ my thoughts grew morbid.  _Even though I know how vast and expansive Thedas is, I also know that the fates of souls are intertwined with life and time and that...and that Leliana and Salem are destined to meet once more. If both walk on the same plane, in the same world, then they will be reunited. Even death cannot stop a love from reaching out into the void, into the ache, and pulling from it memories of bliss...even death cannot stop love._

     I closed my eyes and made and desperate endeavor not to think. I focused on the feel of Leliana's touch upon my skin, her kind, gentle hands cleansing my body of the blood and the dirty of this day. I desired nothing more than to feel everything wash away beneath her tenderness and caring. A touch that now belonged to me...but that I did not now deserve.

     I did not know how Salem had walked away from me. I puzzled it over in my mind, turning and twisting all that I knew in every way, attempting to find some turn or tangle that made sense. None of them did, however. Faith was a lovely, necessary thing, but in spite of its beauty, faith was delicate, fragile...easily broken. But it could be repaired. I had lost my faith and found it restored. I did not know if I could sacrifice all mortal happiness, all chance for my spirit and body to know contentment and completion, for a thing so often short-lived as faith. 

      _But that is the reason Salem walked away and trusted me to care for, protect, and love Leliana. Perhaps there is more to her reasoning, more information that could she could not share...or did not wish to. She told me that she remained unable to place a blade to her throat, to take her own life in any fashion...what is holding her back from such a thing? A woman who asks to be killed does not avoid the thought of suicide, not even for the sake of honor. Therefore it stands to reason there must be something preventing her from committing it._

_But what?_

     "Your shoulders are in absolute knots." Leliana murmured, bringing me back into the present moment, into my present bliss. "How did you manage to do anything at all with these, darling?" She asked, her voice etched with the slightest tinge of worry. "You must hurt so very much."

     I nodded and her hands rested on my shoulders, strong and sure fingers manipulating the muscles beneath them into relaxation. I sighed and pitched my head forward, luxuriating in the sheer comfort of being in her presence. Nothing that I could attain in this world would ever feel so right. Nothing that I could attain in this world would ever bring me this measure of joy. 

     My purest joy lay waiting for me in the land of the dead, just as Leliana's...once did. I wondered, in my exhausted fugue, if I would ever be angry that Salem Cousland lived again. I wondered if I would ever be bitter and cold and furious with the intricacies of the gods who had returned Leliana's great love...and left mine to languish, out of reach and away from me. 

      _How could I be angry?_ I questioned myself.  _Salem herself told me that she wishes **nothing** more than to be with Leliana...then she walked away. She walked away and thanked me for loving the other half of her own soul. How could I even let the thought of anger enter my mind after witnessing that...that level of self-sacrificial  **madness**? _

     Leliana's heavenly ministrations continued until all of the tension washed out of my body. I was clean and sore and desperate for human comfort, touch, and connection. I rose from the bath and Leliana, always ready, wrapped me in a towel. As I dried myself off, I watched my lover shed her clothing. She bared her back to me, no longer self-conscious of the scars that marred, marked, and made her. 

     My throat tightened in great pain as I remembered the scars that decorated the body of Salem Cousland. Scars that only one had been able to cherish. Scars that only one did not turn from. Eyes that but a single person could look into and see past the scars and the reminders that gaze scorched with and see the  _love_ and  _strength_ that defined the woman herself. I walked to the bed, knowing that I would have the comfort of sharing it with another warm body and loving heart; that Leliana and I both accepted and adored the other's scars...also knowing that Salem Cousland slept alone. 

     Leliana finished undressing and joined me at the bed. We slipped beneath the covers together, and our bodies fit so well against each other, because we had learned how to align them. We had learned how to love each other. But it was not instinctual for either of us. It did not have that sense of perfection that marked the bond of soul to soul. But it was love, and that was enough. 

     I held my bard against me, breathing in the scent of her hair, placing light, affectionate kisses across the top of her shoulder. I did not know how to speak, for I feared I would betray the secret I had sworn to keep; the lie I had sworn to tell. I wanted to do nothing more than sleep beside the woman I loved, but it appeared that rest was not to be, for she spoke the question I did not wish her to ask. 

     "You seem troubled, Kat." Leliana murmured, using the shortened version of my name, something she did so rarely, but a thing that was so distinct, so  _her_ , that I adored it. "Is the death weighing on your mind?"

     "Yes." I did not wish to say more, but I knew that she would ask. 

     "I have seen you lose a duel with death." My bard mused. "Always you were sorrowful, but never were you this silent, nor this burdened. Why is this loss different?"

      _Because it was **Salem**. Because even though she has did and you and I love one another, she harbors no bitterness towards you, loves you still enough to  **bleed** for you, and yet...yet she does not demand that you recognize her sacrifice. Instead, she asks me to lie. _

     "I am shamed by this loss." I answered her question. "He was...a complete enigma. An unbelievable man who was willing to give his life for yours. A man who has now lost all that he loved and...and in so doing gave you back to me. It should be no wonder that I am shamed by his loss, as well as humbled by his honor...his measure and comprehension of love without self."

     Leliana nodded and I knew that she  _understood_ as much as I would allow her to understand. "I, too, am humbled." She whispered. "Humbled to know that a life was given for mine this day."

      _It was so much more, Leliana. So much **more** than a simple life. The woman who saved you abandoned every dream, ripped apart her own heart, placed it into the dust, and smeared it into the earth with the sole of her boot. Then she...she walked away, not with words of anger or grief upon her lips, but words of  **forgiveness**._

     "But I am glad." The words tangled in my throat, but I needed to speak them, for I needed to rinse the taste of the lie from my mouth by giving her what truth I could. "I am glad because I am here, lying next to you, listening to you breathe, and speaking of everything and nothing. I wanted nothing more than to save his life but I am so very,  _very_ beyond thankful that he gave it."

     Leliana rolled over, wrapped her arm about my waist, and pulled me closer. We rested our heads on the same pillow, breathing the same air. She reached up, tucked my hair behind my ear, and then moved forward, capturing my lips in a delicate kiss. With the pressure of her lips and the taste of her, I came undone, body and soul. I fought back tears as Leliana pulled away, wearing a soft, gentle smile. 

     "I love you." She whispered, a sacred declaration in the dark of night, in a warm bed, in a place that we did not call home. 

     "I love you too." I replied, meaning each and every word ten-thousand times more than I ever had before. 

     My bard, my comfort, my Leliana, turned back over, molding her body to mind once again, resting in the shelter of my arms. Her eyes closed and, in mere moments, I felt her body relax in slumber. Then, only then, did I let my tears fall. I choked down the wretched sobs that jerked in my gut and in my chest. I wept for the happiness that I'd stolen from another more deserving...at  _their_ behest. 

     I cried for the lie I told...but even more than that, I grieved for the woman who sundered her own heart, who broke her own soul yet further and, in so doing, kept me whole. My tears were a poor offering to the gods, but with each one that fell, I begged the heavens, the hells, the gods, and the spirits to cast their eyes upon a life lived in love and sacrifice...and I begged them to show mercy. 


	17. The Advantages Taken of Chaos

**The Lowtown Alienage  
Merrill**

     I shivered in the chill wind. I didn't know if it was the cold or the exhaustion that made me tremble as I walked the streets from Hightown into Lowtown. Fenris and Sebastian went home at sundown, leaving me, Varric, and Anders with Hawke. Aveline had left earlier than them, saying that she needed to look in on Donnic, then track down a disease infested slattern. I had no idea what she was looking for, but with her saying it was disease infested, I assumed she meant she was looking for rodents. They were known for carrying disease, but I would have thought Aveline more concerned about Hawke than about rodents, no matter what disease they carried. 

     I hadn't wanted to leave, but Anders insisted, with a very grumpy look on his face, that Hawke didn't need her friends hovering over her with worry. I should have told him that Hawke also didn't need her friend yelling at the person who saved her life. He wouldn't have taken that well though, not from me. He hated blood magic, but he was a walking abomination. I didn't think he had a right to lecture me, but he did so anyway...though not around Hawke and Isabela. They kept me safe...something I would not feel tonight until I locked my door behind me...and perhaps not even then. 

     Varric offered to walk me home, but I could see that he didn't want to leave Hawke. I couldn't ask him to, either. She was very unwell, in spite of everything that Anders and the kind physician had done for her. She'd awakened for a brief moment, but had not been lucid. Her eyes, hazed with pain and fever, darted about the room, her cracking voice and rasping throat muttering Isabela's name. It made my heart break and, for the first time, I felt a little angry at the pirate captain. She should have...she should have been there, by Hawke's side. 

     I felt a bit lost without the people who had kept me safe since leaving my clan. Hawke and 'Bela attached themselves to me, and for a time I had fancied both of them a great deal. But the pirate and the champion soon had eyes only for each other. I wanted another's eyes to glow when they looked at me in the same way that Ryker's lit up when she saw Isabela...even though 'Bela hurt Ryker...a great deal. I'd wondered why my friend endured it, but I did not have to wonder anymore. There was someone in my life I would allow to hurt me, if only to be with them for a little while. 

      I frowned as I got closer to the alienage. The torchlights near the Vhenadahl were always what beckoned me home, but they were faint and flickering, difficult to see because of the throng of people gathered around them. I heard loud voices and a harsh scream and I slipped into the shadows, needing to know what was happening, but also staying hidden so that I did not get drawn into conflict and be made unable to defend myself. 

     "You blood knife-ears owe us." I saw a human man, easy to pick out in the crowd, for he stood head and shoulders above every one of the elves. "The qunari razed the damn city and had several of yours along with them. Not a single one of you lost your fucking lives, hiding here like Maker-damned insects. We say that's worth a bit of gratitude, don't you think?"

     I narrowed my eyes in the dark, remembering where I had seen this before. Hawke had walked me home from the Hanged Man one night and we'd been jumped by one of the many gangs in Kirkwall. The man I saw now I had seen then; he was the only one who escaped Hawke's blade and my spells that night. Now, he stood here, exploiting the elves of the alienage once again. It was not enough to that they shook down the elves for gold we did not have, for a fallacious protection fee, but now they believed we owed them more. Our homes had burned too. Our livelihoods had been destroyed as well. We should not have to put up with this. 

      _There are five of them,_ I frowned, attempting to see how I might alter this situation.  _But there are too many innocents near them. It will not be safe to use my magic here, and yet I cannot bear to see my people exploited further. Even though they are not Dalish, we are all still of the People. Our blood all comes from Arlathan...but I cannot even defend them with the risk of collateral damage._

     The alienage Elder stood as tall as his stooped form would allow him. "You did nothing for us, and you will receive nothing from us. We, too, have suffered losses, proving the idiocy of your claims."

     The human backhanded him and I clenched my fists, hating that I could think of nothing that would harm the bandits alone. I could focus the magic of the elements on a single person, or an entire area, but I could not take out the five at once without harming my people. 

     "Do not dare mock your betters, elven dog!" The human roared. "You will pay us with gold or pay us with blood!"

     Unable to hear more, unable to merely sit and watch, I left the safety of the shadows, staff in hand, preparing to do what I had to in order to protect my people...even though I knew that many of them would despise me for it, as had my clan. I knew there was a possibility that they would turn me over to the templars. I did not care. This would not stand. 

     "Get. Out." A low, calm voice whipped through the night, drawing the gang's attention. I recognized the voice and my heart calmed. We would be safe now, I knew it. 

     "Andraste's holy tits!" The leader roared. "When did the elves grow spines!?"

     "Do not mock your betters, human scum." The voice moved into the light of the torches. "The Elder spoke truth. They will not pay gold for services not rendered. You will not extort the innocent, not so long as I'm standing here."

     The gang leader scoffed. "You don't look like you'll be standing much longer." He mocked her, and his fellows roared. 

     The woman, my protector, my friend, said nothing further. In a lightning move, she whipped her twin swords from the scabbards on her back. The elves scattered and the gang leader reached for his sword but before he could draw his own blade, his intestines were spilling out of his stomach. He fell to the ground and those he had with him rushed to avenge his life, leaving the group of elves. 

     My friend's blades flashed through the night and I heard more cries...this time the cries of the wounded and the dying. I reached out and engulfed one of the gang's members in flames. He shrieked and ran off into the night. I froze another in place just as a blade sliced through his neck. Blood fountained out onto the earth and the night grew quiet. 

     I turned to look at my friend and found her on her knees, her hands clenched around the hilts of her swords, which she used to prop herself up.In the torchlight, I could see the horrific bloodstains on her shirt, and she had lost the mask she always wore when she left my home. I ran to her as the alienage elves emerged from their hiding places and began to speak to each other in hushed tones, while several moved to help the injured Elder. Not a single one thanked the shemlen who had saved them. 

     "Salem?" I asked, kneeling down in front of her. "Salem, were you hurt?"

     "Yes...but not...by them." She rasped, telling me all I needed to know. I threaded my body around hers, wrapping an arm around her waist, feeling a thick pad of bandaging against my hand. 

     "Let me take you inside." I offered, biting my lip as I helped her to her feet. 

     She took as much of her weight as she could bear onto her own feet, but she was still quite heavy as we walked the short distance to my home. I was glad for the excuse to vanish while others sorted through the chaos outside. I kicked the door shut behind me and dropped my staff, guiding Salem to my bed instead of to the bedroll beside the fire, where she usually slept. The warrior all but collapsed and I knelt down, wanting to help, but having no manner of idea what to do. 

     She looked up and her pale eyes wore the hint of a smile. "Thank you, Merrill."


	18. A Woman of Her People

**Merrill's Home** **  
** **Salem**

     I hurt. I hurt like fury and damnation but, even though pain gnawed at me, I could not help but smile into the wide green eyes filled with concern and compassion. My friend looked troubled, tired, and worn. I did not want her to worry about me, even though I knew she would. It was her nature. 

     "What can I do?" She asked, her hand resting on my knee, her eyes searching mine, for though she knew her own personal hell would be relived in my gaze, she met it without trembling. 

     "Would you mind helping me with my boots?" I asked, and before I finished speaking her deft hands were tugging at the laces. 

     I sighed in relief as she removed the heavy leather and set it aside. She lifted one of my boots and stared at the blood spatters on it, some fresh from the worthless wastes of breath we had killed, others from earlier in the day. The day I had spent both bleeding and shedding blood. I would not remember those I had slain. I would remember...I would remember...I closed my eyes and relived that moment of purest bliss. 

      _The scent of sweat and blood and Andraste's Grace, overpowering and exquisite. The sharp shred and punch of arrows piercing my flesh juxtaposed against the warmth and weight of her in my arms. I heard her speak. I felt her skin. I bled so that she did not, and I would spend the entirety of my life with my flesh torn open in order to spare her pain._

     I barely registered the sound of Merrill bustling about the small space that she called home, that she allowed me to share with her. I closed my eyes, whispering a prayer to the Maker to watch over Leliana, the bard no longer mine, the woman of faith, the Maker's new chosen voice in Thedas. She had kept her promise and believed the words I had written her long ago, the night before I went to my Calling. She chose to open her heart to love once more, and I could not...I could not have been happier or more devastated by that knowledge. 

     I looked toward my bedroll, but I had no desire to sleep tonight. I would dream of beautiful things and wake knowing that they belonged to another. Even in the brief closing of my eyes I could see it with a clarity that tore and sliced at my soul. Leliana and the woman that she now loved, the physician Kathyra. The thought of them together hurt worse than the wounds in my body, but...but Leliana was  _happy_. That meant everything. That  _was_ everything. 

     The sound of shattering clay brought me out of my reverie. Merrill knelt on the ground, muttering Dalish curses, picking up pieces of a broken cup and casting them into the fire. When she finished, she propped her knees as if to stand, but she abandoned the movement, slumping forward instead, her head hanging low. I saw the tell-tale clench and release of her shoulders and knew that my friend wept. 

     I gritted my teeth and dragged myself to my feet, feeling the simultaneous throb of my back, shoulder, chest, and side. I shoved it aside, for physical pain did not matter when one that I cared for grieved. I walked to Merrill, my steps halting and stilted. I clenched my hands into fists, biting back the pain as I knelt beside her and rested my hand on her shoulder. She tilted her head to look at me and tears shone in her deep green eyes and dripped from the point of her aquiline nose. 

     "Why do you weep?" I asked, seeing the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the pallor of her skin, the way her lips trembled with her sorrow and her worry.

     "I'm...I am afraid." She confessed. "Afraid that it will never end."

     "The extortion of your people?" I asked, keeping my tone gentle, for I knew how terrible it must have been for her to decide between keeping herself safe or helping her people. 

      _She made the difficult choice. I saw her moving from the shadows before I even spoke. She is still somewhat a stranger to life outside her clan, but she is brave, and kind, and good._

     Merrill shook her head, her raven hair glinting in the firelight. "No...I mean...yes...a little. I...too many people...people I care about...are bleeding. I don't want them to bleed anymore, Salem. I don't want them to hurt. I don't want you to hurt."

     I could sense that more emotion than she showed lay behind the words she spoke. Merrill was one who felt a great deal, but found speaking those feelings difficult. I knew where she stood. I stood there once before, until my heart had been opened by deft, beautiful, callused fingertips. Hands that...hands that now caressed another, lips that kissed another's, a body that rested alongside the form of a strong, beautiful healer. Leliana lay with a woman who saved life. I had blood on my hands. I would always have blood on my hands.

     "I do not hurt, Merrill." I whispered the lie I always told to comfort. 

     Leliana always saw through that lie to the truth of my mind, heart, and body. But Merrill would not, because she needed to believe the lie. She needed a strength to lean against and, weak as I was, I could still be that strength for her. I could be a friend to her in this moment as she had been to me since the strange day that brought us together. 

     Merrill shivered in spite of the warmth from the fire. "Your shirt is soaked in blood." She murmured. "I could feel the bandaging underneath your clothes."

     "A glancing blow." I captured her delicate chin in my fingers and turned her eyes to mine. "I promise you, I am fine. You have been a true friend, and I can see that you are troubled. Please, unburden your mind. I am willing to listen, and help, if I may."

     Her lips trembled and her eyes darted from mine to the fire and back. In a rush of desperation-soaked movement, she threw herself into my embrace and clung to me as though I were shelter from a storm. Her fingers clawed into the bandages over the wound on my shoulder and I gritted my teeth, attempting to breathe through fresh agony. I strained to focus on something else, anything other than the pain of my flesh, and found my distraction in Merrill's shuddering, sobbing form.

      _She is so very small,_ I thought as I wrapped my arms around her in what I hoped would be a comforting hold.  _So very fragile and frail and yet she carries so many burdens and worries. The way I hold her now...I once held Leliana in this manner, during the Blight, when the thunder roared. She stole into my tent, shuddering and terrified. During the fortnight she was imprisoned and tortured, a storm raged above Val Royeaux. The gentle roll of thunder and crack of lightning did nothing but remind her of the horrors she endured at the hands of wicked men._

     "It's Hawke." Merrill whispered, her voice ragged from tears. "She fought the Arishok and he...he all but killed her...I could do nothing and she was in so much pain. I wanted to help but I was useless." Merrill buried her head beneath my chin and I rubbed my hand up and down her back in hopes to soothe her. "Anders ran like a coward and Aveline had to search for him. We would have lost Ryker if it hadn't been for the kindness of a stranger. She asked me if I could heal and I felt so useless...then Anders came in and he shouted because Hawke would have scars. He shouldn't have shouted; he had no right to shout...Isabela is nowhere to be found and I am afraid for Hawke. 'Bela has hurt her so much and Hawke is already in so much danger. If 'Bela isn't there, Ryker might never wake up and I need her to wake up, Salem...Kirkwall needs her to wake up."

     I bristled at the mention of Anders. There were many people that I avoided in the City of Chains, and he was almost chief among them. He had sworn to kill me, should we meet again. He would never have had the courage or the strength when he was simply a Grey Warden mage, but he had merged himself with a Fade spirit. It would be difficult to face him, and I did not wish to tempt the monster he had become. However, with Merrill sobbing in my arms, I wanted nothing more than to rip out Anders' tongue so that he could not spit venomous words against an innocent, kind spirit ever again. 

     "Hawke will pull through." I promised the elf. "And I am sorry that Anders upset you. He will someday find what true justice is, I swear it."

     Merrill shook her head up and down against my chest as she allowed me to cradle her like a child. "He has a spirit of justice within him." She murmured. "But he is so hateful and has become so vengeful that I begin...I am beginning to feel frightened by him."

     "I know." I assured her. "Your fear of him is not cowardice, but intuition. Keep that guard about your heart, for it will preserve your life, and the lives of those you love."

     Merrill nodded again, and we fell silent for a little while. Sweat broke out on my forehead from the pain of sitting like this, of holding the weight of another, even one so small as Merrill. I would not break, however. I would not give into the pain, nor let it rule me, nor dictate the manner of comfort I was able to offer. Pain never stopped me before my death. It would not stop me in my new life.

     "He should not have shouted at Kathyra." Merrill broke the silence and pushed a blade through my heart. 

      _Kathyra...again. Not only did she save my life, but she kept Hawke alive as well. There is a darker heart in me that wishes to despise her for her goodness; that loathes her for her ability to save lives. She mends the wounds caused by the swords and I wield the sword that creates the wound. Maker, help me now. Help me understand what I fear I shall never comprehend. I spoke the truth when I gave her my forgiveness, but that does not ease this horrific ache inside my chest, a gaping chasm where another piece of my heart should lie. But that piece is one I have given to another...and it will always belong to her. Leliana. My last love._

     "I have never seen someone without magic mend so large an injury." Merrill continued and I steeled my heart, knowing that she needed to speak, needed to voice her thoughts in order to bleed clean the wounds dealt her psyche this day. 

     "She sounds gifted by the gods." I spoke past my swollen throat, birthing the words with utmost difficulty. 

     "They must have." Merrill agreed, pulled away, and looked me in the eye. I could see the shudder of apprehension rippling through her as she met my gaze, but she did not look away. "You...you are so kind to me, Salem. Even the elves here worship the Maker, believing all other gods are false. You...you allow the belief in...in other gods...without condemning me."

     I knew the smile curving my lips was one of sorrow. "Because I know that they exist." I murmured. "And they bestow gifts upon their children." I lifted Merrill's small, delicate hand. "They grant the gift of magic." I whispered. "The gift of life." I thought of Kathyra. "The gift of death." I thought of myself. 

     Merrill moved the hand that I held, wrapping her slender fingers around my wrist and, with her other hand, tracing the deep, blue, spiderwebbing scars that decorated my flesh. In the center of my palm lay a large, white scar caused by a knife being driven through my hand to pin it to the ground in a fetid dungeon. The elf seemed mesmerized by the deformation and I allowed her the exploration, ignoring as best I could the pain that ate deeper into my bones with every moment. 

     I knew I needed to rest, but I had no wish to do so...for the nightmares would come again. Nightmares of a dragon piercing paradise, running me through with its talons, bringing me back to a world that had no need of me any longer. I had championed this realm once, but I was brought back to shatter the faith of a prophet...the prophet who once was my wife. The prophet who would speak a message of love, a message I believe in would never jeopardize. 

     "You have a great gift." Merrill murmured as she examined my hand. "I can see it in the lies of your palm. Keeper Marethari said that you could see a person's life and purpose in the lines of their palm. It is the place...it is the place where people carry their gifts."

     "Oh?" I asked, grateful for the diversion, wanting to speak no more of Anders, no more of Kathyra, no more of the woman who loved Leliana...who made her life as I wanted it to be.

      _Happy_.

     "What do I carry in my hands, Merrill?"

     She rubbed her thumb along the thick, smooth, white scar in the middle of my palm. "Nothing." She answered, and my heart sank deeper into the mire of grief. "But nothing is the greatest gift of all."

     "I do not see how." I muttered, dark. 

     "Hands that hold nothing are hands that love." Merrill told me, a note of awe in her voice. "For they can be filled with whatever gift needs to be given at the very moment that another may require it. The Dalish believe that empty hands hold the greatest power...they belong to those who save and those who protect. This is...this is very true of you."

     I wanted to believe her, but I did not know if I dared do so. I whispered my thanks and Merrill fell silent. I stared into the fire, looking down when I heard the elf's soft, light snores. In the peace of slumber, she appeared so very young, innocent, and carefree of the trials and damnations of the world. I thought of her words to me, of my empty, gift-less hands. 

      _These hands once held the most previous heart in all of Thedas. I miss you, Leliana. I miss you so very, very much. But I am...I am grateful that, tonight, you rest with one who loves you, one whose hands are full. Full with the gift of healing and the gift of life. I wish the both of you nothing but blessings._

     Merrill murmured in her sleep and I caught the name 'Hawke' in her mutters. I pursed my lips and steeled mysel for what I needed to do next. Cradling her small form close, I forced myself to my feet. My woulds  _screamed_ as I placed too much stress upon them, but I could not care less. Merrill was so kind to me. I would be kind in turn. 

     I carried her the few steps to her bed and placed her on the mattress with great care, cushioning her head on the pillow. Sweat dripped off of my face, staining the blankets I pulled over her form. I cradled my right arm against my chest and pressed my left hand to the wound in my right side. I stumbled back towards the fire and felt fresh blood soak into the bandages. I might have torn a stitch, but that didn't matter. The would would still heal, even if it left an uglier scar. 

     I leaned against the wall, pressing my back tight against the stone and sliding down increment by increment until I rested in a sitting position. My body cried out in unabashed anguish but I breathed through it until the raging flames cooled to smoldering embers. I stared into the fire, my eyelids fluttering. I did not want to sleep. I did not want to dream of the woman I had held in my arms for a moment of absolute perfection. I did not want to dream of my beloved wife, now no longer mine. 

     So I reached out for my parchment and ink. I had allowed Merrill to bleed clean the wounds inside her mine. I would attempt to do the same with my quill.  


	19. A Hidden Part of History

** Merrill's Home   
** **Salem**

_Do you know, dear heart, that there are worlds within worlds? We have been schooled into believing that there are a finite number of worlds, but I no longer believe that. I wonder if you remember my telling you of how it felt when I walked through the trial of flames in the temple of the Sacred Ashes. Those fires spoke to me and burned me alive, breaking through all that I was made of and splitting my soul apart to find its true worth. My love of you was the sole thing within me that divine power found worthy. My love of you still is the sole thing within me that is good and pure and true._

_I ask if you remember that tale in hopes to convey what it felt like to step through the eluvian. I followed Morrigan into the mirror, and when I stepped through the glass that was not glass, I felt every part of me particulate and split into nothingness. For the briefest of moment I could taste the sound of my breathing, hear the color of the black behind my closed eyes, and see the odor of the air around me. All of me blurred and faded and swirled until it seemed as though I could see the soul at my center._

_But that beautiful, transcendent moment of synesthetic paradise lasted for but a blink. The very force that splintered me apart slammed me back together. I could feel the bones of my skeleton fusing together, sense every nerve burning through my body, hear the sound of my hair once again finding its roots and my scars fissuring back into the landscape of my skin. I fell to the ground and I screamed out in pain, for I felt as though my blood had turned into venom, my muscles into strikes of lightning, and my bones into splintered wood. There are no words to properly describe the agony I endured. I cursed my existence, the day of my birth, the Maker and all other gods whose names I could recall._

_Morrigan knelt before me. I know you recall how much disdain and spite could live in her amber gaze…but the eyes that I looked into possessed that malevolence and disgust tenfold. She told me that I had somehow come to the Crossroads, but that I should not, by any of the laws of magic, have been able to follow her through the eluvian. I remembered then words you said to me so long ago. Words that the Maker herself had told you of me. That I had stepped outside the boundaries of fate. I wish that I could believe that I still possessed the Maker's blessing…but the Maker allowed me to die. She gave us our time to live together and cherish our love, then allowed my Calling to lead me into the Deep Roads and into my second death._

_I bear no love for the god that brought me back. In fact, much like her daughter, I despise the entity that believed I should live again. The woman we thought could shift into a dragon, when, in truth, I now believe she is a dragon who can take the form of a mortal. Flemeth. Her very name causes my lip to curl upwards and my hands to clench in anger. I despise what she has done, what she has made me, and the purpose for which she had brought me back. I tried to convey all of this to Morrigan, to let her know that I believed her claim, but the pain that owned me would not allow me to speak._

_The words that Morrigan said then chilled me to the bone. She said that I was to be left at the Crossroads, unable to use the eluvian to travel, unable to follow her to where she would venture. She reminded me, with acid in her tone, that I had sworn to slay her and her abomination of a child if I should see them again. A strange expression took over her countenance, and for a moment I saw in Morrigan's eyes the same fierce love that had lived in my  own mother's gaze. I struggled to push myself up, to call after her, but all my strength had deserted me and I still could not speak._

_I watched Morrigan walk to another eluvian and disappear through the shimmering glass. She left me in a place that is not a place, that exists between the Golden City, the Black City, the Fade, the Veil, and the world that we know and walk in. There is no sound in that place, and no light. It is all silence and grey...a place in which the mind can go mad. I let the fog roll over me and I lay there, attempting to gather strength that I did not have, for I had been broken by the mirror's magic._

_My dearest Leliana, I believe that, for a moment, I did go mad. I knew not how long I lay in the fog, trying again and again to crawl towards the shimmering mirrors and leave this place, but I could only drag myself a step at a time before collapsing once again, struggling to fill the lungs I began to believe I did not have. I lay on my back, staring into the nothingness that might have been a sky, or another earth all together. I wanted to pray, but did not believe that I would be heard. So I did what I have always done when I am in pain and in dire need of salvation from it._

_I thought of you, dear heart. I thought of us, the joys we had shared, the sorrows we had endured, the moments we spend laughing until tears filled our eyes. The night that you coerced me into intoxication and then demanded that I dance with you around the fire. The night you offered me your body and I spent a blissful night, content with simply holding you against me, pressing light kisses to the top of your shoulders and sharing your breath. I remembered the feel of your hand within mine, the gentle press of your fingers as we walked together through the fields. I recalled the complete satiation that was the weight of your head against my breast, with the cool rush of your breath flowing over my most sensitive places and bringing them to life. I closed my eyes and dreamed while awake._

_I dreamed of the fire of your lips and tongue caressing me, making my heart trip over itself as you guided me towards ecstasy. My hands began to tremble as I brought to my mind the feel of your inner walls surrounding my fingers, clenching and unclenching in the spasm of pure release. I wanted nothing more than to hear your beautiful voice raised in ecstasy, you crying my name and breaking the silence. But those dreams faded all too soon. They faded into the tears that spilled from my eyes as I lay between the worlds, as I realized that I might never know that joy again; that I had been stranded here and might die yet again, leaving Flemeth free to run amok in the world. I did not and do not want her on the face of Thedas any longer, Leliana. She is a threat, and I tremble at the thought that you may be forced to confront her again. I pray that the Maker will keep you safe from such an eventuality...and even if she will not, I will do all that I can to see that you are protected.  
_

_In spite of my thoughts of sedition against the madwoman who returned me to life, the self-defined god decided to torture me yet further. My eyes flew open when a pointed boot kicked me in the ribs. I looked up to see none other than the monstrous deity that had dragged me back from paradise. Flemeth stood over me, wearing a look of unadulterated loathing that made Morrigan's disdain appear to be a beam of pure elation. The Woman of Many Years berated and belittled me, then praised me for having been able to pass through the eluvian. She claimed that I remained full of pleasant surprises, but all I heard in her voice was joy at the fact that she had found new ways in which I could be used._

_I struggled to get to my feet, but the fog continued to drag me down. It took all the strength that I possessed to drag myself to my knees. Sweat poured down my face and I fought for breath as Flemeth glared at me for the longest of moments, her eyes burning. After a moment of silence that felt like an eternity, she lifted me by the back of my shirt with ease, as though I weighed nothing. She dragged me through the fog and stopped before another eluvian. This mirror did not have the smooth, liquid sheen of the others. I could see fissures in the glass, places where it had been cracked._

_Flemeth smiled, and the words that she spoke chilled me to the bone. She did not look at me, but I felt her words crawl across my skin, burrow into my ears, and bury themselves inside my mind, wriggling and gnawing away._

_"I have chosen a reluctant champion, true. But mortal love is weak." Then she did look at me, and I shivered at the glee and exultation in her gaze. "Let us see, Salem Cousland, how long you can withstand temptation."_

_With her free hand, she touched the mirror and the cracks faded away. The mirror began to glow as the others beside it did, and Flemeth hummed low in her throat, a dulcet note of approval that terrified me. I waited for more cryptic statements, more taunting, more torment, but that did not happen. She threw me into the mirror, the pain and synesthesia struck, and I dissolved again._


	20. The Memory of Arrival

**Merrill's Home** **  
** **Merrill**

     I woke to yellow sunlight pouring in through the window. It took a great deal of time for my eyes to open and acclimate to the light of morning, but at last they managed. My body felt made of aches when I stretched out, the discomfort bringing back memories of yesterday's terror. My heart fluttered in my chest like the wings of a frightened baby bird. I threw the covers off of me and sat bolt upright...then stopped, puzzled. 

     I did not remember going to my bed, nor drawing the covers over me. I closed my eyes against the sunlight and pinched the bridge of my nose, remembering everything that I could about last night...returning late, the decision to use magic before the alienage elves in hopes to save them, Salem's swords cutting down those of her own race to defend the elves...an unheard of thing in this city and in the majority of the world. 

      _Salem..._ her name made my heart flutter, but in an entirely different manner than that of the fear that filled me upon waking. I had fallen asleep in the strength of her arms...she must have lifted me and tucked me into bed. 

      _But her clothes were drenched with blood_...I thought, frowning as I ran my teeth over my bottom lip. 

     I looked to the fire and saw that Salem had banked it so that it could be easily restarted should I require it. Her shirt lay near the hearth, neat and folded, but still dark with the stain of dried blood. Worried for her, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my feet touched the floor. The exertion of yesterday made even the soles of my feet feel as though they had been bruised. 

     I made as little noise as possible as I knelt beside the bedroll. I did not wish to wake her, for Salem did not sleep as much as she should. I could always tell by the dark circles beneath her eyes that never faded; only deepened. She never complained of exhaustion, though, so I thought it best not to mention it. Instead, I quietly worried over her and cared for her as much as she would allow. 

     It had not been so long ago, perhaps four months, when I had been sitting before my fire, speaking with Hawke, telling her of the legends of my people and the stories of our gods. I told her of our father Elgar'nan and our mother Mythal, and of the god that I believe protected her: Andruil, blood and force, the goddess of the hunt. Hawke had smiled and asked questions and we spoke long into the night of our families and our traditions, both of which were fading from our lives evermore each day. 

* * *

      _Hawke leaves and I choose to remain awake, thinking of our conversation, staring at the eluvian that I still struggle to rebuild. I want to restore the history of my people, even if I know very little of it. I, who was once First to the Keeper, still knew so little. For others of my people, the lack of knowledge might lead to fear of what they did not know. For me, that lack of knowledge led to curiosity. I want to rebuild it, even though the mirror I sit before had killed Tamlen, one of my clan's hunters, and made another...a dear friend...so very ill that even Marethari's skill with healing could do nothing. I had watched Lyna waste away, and tears burn fresh in my eyes now as I remember whispering farewell and placing a final kiss on her frigid brow._

_I reach out and touch the glass, wondering if I will ever find the key to unlocking its mysteries and magic. I trace the lines of the cracks, wincing when I feel a sharp edge slice my finger open. I watch, mystified, as blood spreads through the cracks, flowing upward and downward with unnatural speed, binding the broken pieces together into a cohesive whole. The eluvian takes on a glowing, crimson sheen; the glass appears to liquefy and begins to ripple like water in an earthquake. I scrabble backward against the wall, afraid of what might happen, for I know only that the eluvian is a portal. I do not know where it leads._

_A low hum seems to pour out of the eluvian and the sound makes the floor tremble. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, trying to protect myself. My staff is across the room, and the floor is shaking with greater violence. I want to close my eyes but I cannot look away from the eluvian. It's liquid surface is undulating and pulsing; the edges begin to glow with a sickly light and I gasp as a form is forced through the liquid glass and spat out onto the floor. The body curls into itself, uttering the most wretched scream I have ever heard._

_The scream does not end and I clap my hands over my ears, huddling into myself, watching as the eluvian changes yet again. The ripples stop, the crimson-liquid sheen fades, the cracks are restored and it returns to the state of being nothing more than a broken mirror. However, I watched a body come through it. I saw the portal opened, and had no concept of how it happened. I put all of those thoughts aside because that wretched scream is still blistering my ears to the point where **I** am in pain. However, I know my own hurt is not as severe as the pain of the woman on my floor who is holding her head and sobbing in inarticulate wails. _

_As I move closer, she grows more quiet; the sobbing vanishes into short gasps and slight moans. Her body is trembling and when I touch her hand it is cold as ice. I do not know where she has come from, but I wish to know. I wish to know why the eluvian repaired itself and why she fell out of it onto my floor. I rush to my bed and bring a blanket, wrapping her in it and sending a blast of fire into the wood stacked in the hearth._

_I kneel down beside her and her eyelids flutter open. My lips part in shock as I witness the most beautiful and tortured blue I have ever seen. Ryker Hawke has blue eyes, and they dance and shine and are lovely to look upon. They hold an empathy for those who know pain and loss, and a fierce fire in defense of the helpless and downtrodden. I once fell and still fall, on occasion, into Ryker Hawke's blue eyes._

_But I drown in this woman's gaze. Her eyes are somehow hot as fire and cold as snow; there is a torment in them that mesmerizes me. It is as though she pierces my mind and pulls forward all of my pain and hurt, all of my memories of tragedy. In her eyes I see my beloved friend, Lyna Mahariel, taking her last breath as the fever and darkness steals her life. I see the pain of Marethari renouncing me as her First. I am wrapped in every terrible thing that has happened to me, but I can also see **this woman's** pain, a sorrow so immense that I feel deep pity even for a stranger who fell through my broken eluvian. _

_I reach out and take her hand, wanting to touch her, to know with my hands what my eyes tell me. That she is real. That she did indeed come from where the eluvian leads. Her eyes are chaotic, agonized stars, sparing with her labored breathing. She turns her head and I gasp, covering my mouth with my fingers when I see the notches of missing skin in the shell of her ears, and the vivid indigo and scarlet weal across her right cheek. It looks like scar tissue and I want to touch it, even though I do not know her name. Her lips part and I expect a tight, thin voice, made of the suffering I see in her._

_"Ma halani." Her voice is low, rough, and raspy as if from disuse. I find the sound lovely, but lovelier still to me is the sound of the Dalish language...even if she does speak words I do not want to hear._

_I have heard them before, when I sat vigil beside Lyna. In the depths of her fevered dreaming, she had looked at me, her eyes over-bright with agony and nightmares. She had whispered those same words._

_**Ma halani...help me.**_

_"Ir abelas." She speaks yet again, apologizing to me in my native tongue, and in her eyes I see that she comprehends what my vallaslin means, and she knows me to be a Dalish elf._

_"I..." I stutter in awe of what is happening, wanting to delve into the mystery of it, and knowing that **this** shemlen is at the mystery's heart, "...I speak the common tongue." I tell her. "Are you in pain? Can I do anything? Are you thirsty? Hungry? Injured?"_

_She lies on the ground, bundled in a blanket, still trembling from traveling through the eluvian. Somehow, even in this state, she manages to make the shaking of her head seem like a noble gesture. I open my mouth to ask another question when her eyes roll back in her head and she loses consciousness. I do all that I can to make her comfortable, attempting to drag her to the fire, for her skin is still frigid, but she is so very heavy, even after I remove the swords and scabbards from her back._

_I do manage to get her close enough for the heat of the flames to do some good for her. I want to be able to stay with her, but I had promised to meet Hawke and 'Bela at midday for an investigation of the mines. I leave water and food within reach and, because the temptation is too great, I reach out and run my fingertip along the notched shell of her ear, wondering what happened to her. It does not seem to be a natural deformity, and I need to know what made it. Fenris, Anders, and Aveline would reprimand me for leaving a stranger in my home, but I have to find out why and how she came through my damaged eluvian._

_**And why there are notches in her ears. This is important.**_

* * *

 Ipulled the blankets off Salem and my eyes flared. She had discarded her shirt, but her entire torso and her right shoulders were wrapped in thick layers of bandaging. I bit my lip again when I noticed the large, reddish-brown stain covering her right side. I wanted to strike myself. After the skirmish with the gang, Salem told me she had been hurt. I knew she was in pain, but I did not know the severity of her wounds. 

     As much as I was worried for Hawke, as much as I wanted to run to Hightown and be there to aid and help my friend, I owed it to Salem to help her as well. In the light of the sun I could see that her already fair skin was far too pale. I placed my hand on her forehead to check for a fever. I frowned at how cool and clammy she felt beneath my touch, but the bloodstain on her shirt and her bandages made it clear that she lost a great deal of blood. 

     I would need to change the bandaging and check her wounds for infection. And make her eat something. She did not eat enough. Or sleep enough. I needed to aid her in altering that, but first I had to make certain she ate and drank. She needed water to help replenish the blood she lost, and food to keep up her strength. Hawke would have Varric and Anders and Aveline hovering over her all day, tending to her needs. Salem had nothing and no one. She needed a friend, and I could be that friend. 

     I moved to her head and tapped lightly above her notched ear, having learned from experience that it was dangerous to wake her in easy reach of her hands. What sleep she did get was very, very troubled. 

     "Salem." I called her name, hoping that I did not wake her from a sweet dream. "Salem, wake up."

 


	21. To Quietly Defy a God

**Merill's Home** **  
** **Salem**

     A soft, insistent voice and the lilting accent that marked it brought me into morning. I felt the tapping of Merrill's delicate fingers above my ear, the way she found it best to wake me from slumber. During the Blight, I thought sleep an elusive luxury. Now, I looked back on those times and craved the rest I'd known then. Chance and scheming saw me awakened from eternal sleep, and, now, when I closed my eyes, the dreams that came were far beyond the normal terrors found in the nightmares of the Fade. 

     Merrill knew me well enough to protect herself now, a lesson learned after the morning when she woke me and I bolted upright and lace my hands around her throat, squeezing until her pitiful gasping brought me once more into myself. She wore a necklace of deep bruising for a fortnight, but never reproached me for what I had done to her. I knew, however, that if Ryker Hawke, Varric Tethras, or Isabela ever discovered that it was me who harmed her, I would be dragged through the street, beaten, drawn and quartered. They loved the Dalish elf, and I understood why. 

     I held Merrill dear to me. She was a good woman and the fiercest of friends. Her naivete and delight in new knowledge and skills reminded me of the innocence still in this world. It reminded me of the days, so very long ago, when I had been innocent. I would never forget looking into her wide, apprehensive, glittering green eyes after I had been shoved through the eluvian. I would never forget the slight little smile that quirked her lips when I begged for help in the language of the People. When I apologized for being an inconvenience to her...as I was now. 

     "Is all well?" I asked, propping myself up on my elbows and quickly falling back down onto my pillow as my body reminded me of the damage it took yesterday. 

     "For the moment." Merrill assured me as she stoked the fire back to a comfortable blaze. "Lie still, Salem." She ordered, the hardened edge of her lilting voice making me smile. "You should have told me last night how badly you were hurt."

     I chuckled as her words returned memories to me both bitter and sweet. "You were exhausted, ma fallon." I called her my friend. "Your friend Hawke had a brush with death after the qunari attacked the city, and I know you were and are worried for her. I can fend for myself if you wish to return to her."

     Merrill narrowed her eyes at me as she rose from building the fire; dusted off her clothing, walked to a basket, opened it, and withdrew a loaf of bread and a wheel of cheese. She brought them near me and set them down, then rose and poured tepid water brought from the well yesterday morning, into a cup. She set the cup down beside the bread and cheese and looked up, her eyes apologetic. 

     "It's poor fare, I'm afraid." She murmured, her voice the swift staccato that belied her worry and her need to help. "But it is food and I am certain that you desperately need to eat." I reached for the bread and she slapped my hand away with a light touch, but the force of her hit jarred my injured shoulder. 

     I did not want to cry out; did not wish for Merrill to feel obligated to care for me when she had so much else weighing down her mind. Instead, I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper and salt and felt blood drain away from my face. I closed my eyes and breathed deep to cope with the pain, forcing my mind back into memories of pleasure to mitigate the twinging shocks of my wounds. 

     "You shouldn't be moving that arm." Merrill frowned, lifting the bread and tearing off a large piece, handing it to me. 

     Learning from my mistake, I extended my left hand and took the bread, biting into it with relish, eating my fill. I noticed with my peripheral vision that Merrill had moved away, but I did not pay attention to what she was doing, too busy eating and hoping it would quell the nausea beginning to tighten my throat from both blood loss and eating nothing yesterday. 

     Merrill returned with a clatter of supplies and I looked down to see her store of herbs, fresh bandaging, and the various healing salves she kept at her home for reasons that she had, at last, trusted me enough to disclose. Well...in truth I had coerced the explanation from her. 

     "Merrill." I reached out to her with my left hand, attempting to stay her. "Your concerns lie elsewhere. I will be fine."

     The Dalish elf shook her head. "I won't split my focus by going to Hawke and worrying over you. It's best this way. Your bandages need changing. They're stained and filthy. Ryker has many friends. You..." She trailed off, realizing that she had almost spoken a very painful truth. 

     With an inward wince, I looked to the elf, who had blushed to the tips of her ears with remorse and shame. 

     "It's all right." I kept my tone low and reassuring. "It is a fool who allows their spirit to be wounded by the truth, no matter how unpleasant it may be. Those who would be my friends do not know that I live, and in you alone can I confide. In you alone do I have a friend."

     Her alabaster skin flushed further, she lowered her gaze and fumbled around with the supplies she had brought. I noticed that her fingers trembled as she opened a jar of an astringent smelling salve. Her sleeve slid upward, revealing the hashmarks of scarring, young and old. Once, in my presence, she covered them, but she no longer felt the need to do so. I felt grateful she trusted me that much. 

     "Do you think you can sit up long enough for me to remove the bandaging around your waist, or should I just cut through it?" She asked, looking up from her work. 

     "I'll manage." I offered her a smile and pushed myself up with my left hand, finding it an awkward but manageable maneuver. 

     I sat up and gritted my teeth against the pain splitting through my side and gnawing at my shoulder. I could not show that pain, not to Merrill, or her kind hands would shake with the fear that she was the one causing the discomfort. I breathed deep and slow as the elven mage unwrapped the bandaging around my waist. The stabbing pain became greater as layer by layer was removed. I propped myself up better on my left hand and threw my head back, keeping the rhythm of my breath steady. Before Merrill removed the last layer of bandaging, which I knew would be agonizing, for it was stuck to the wound with dried blood, I threw my mind into memory to distract. 

* * *

      _Rain pounds outside, bringing with it peace and a refreshing scent. The city of Kirkwall reeks to the heights of heaven, and rain always provides brief respite from the stench of the City of Chains. I rise from my bedroll and walk to the window, wondering if Merrill chose to stay the night at the Hawke estate. She does so at times, when their adventuring leads to a long day and an exhausted evening. Still, I worry. There is something in the air that is not at all right._

_Lightning flashes and the door slams open. I step back from the window and see Merrill making her way towards the bureau. She opens its door and her hands visibly tremble. She begins rustling through the contents of the bureau and I become more alarmed as she removes several small jars and rolls of bandaging. Every now and again, when the rain quiets, I hear a sharp intake of breath, a cadence that indicates pain, and no small amount of it._

_"Merill, what's wrong?" I ask, and she jumps back from the bureau, a muffled squeak of shock escaping her lips, and everything she holds falls to the floor._

_I move forward, kneel down, and pick up the bandages and vials, smelling things quite similar to the tinctures and salves that Wynne often made beside the campfire during the Blight. I look up at Merrill. She cradles her left hand to her chest and her eyes are luminescent in the dark._

_"Merrill, are you hurt?" I ask again and she shakes her head, sending water droplets everywhere._

_"It's nothing." She assures me, but I do not believe her, and remain crouched, staring at her until she buckles. "It's nothing to worry over." She clarifies. "I can patch myself up."_

_**What?** I wonder, because I remember her telling me that Anders, the bastard, would be accompanying her and Hawke. I had no respect or love for the mage and the spirit within him that threatened to end my life, but I knew he could heal. And well.  **Why would he not help Merrill? How dare he leave her with an open wound to walk home in the rain! I do not care how light of an injury it is, that is criminal!**_

_"Sit by the fire." I tell her. "I've kept it burning for heat."_

_"Salem, I'm fine, truly." She argues with me in a manner that she has not argued before._

_She hides her wound from hands she needs have no fear of; the mage she traveled with did not heal her, and she did not stay with her friend on a night that she normally would have. Something is wrong and I **will** know what it is. I may not have much to offer any longer, but I can at least protect the one person in this city who has shown me kindness and trust. _

_I get to my feet and walk to the hearth, holding the supplies that she needs. "Come." I order in the voice I used when I knew the title of arlessa and Warden Commander._

_As I thought she might, Merrill heeds the edge of warning in my voice and moves to the fire with meekness and the grace I have seen possessed only by the Dalish people. Her lips are trembling and I see droplets of rain clinging to her eyelashes. I walk to my bedroll and pull the thick, warm blanket off of it and wrap it about Merrill's shoulders, tucking it around her. She sinks down beside the roaring fire, breathing a sigh of relief as the heat begins to enfold her._

_I sit down before her and extend my hands. "Please, let me see the wound." I entreat, but she shakes her head once again._

_"I can manage." She murmurs._

_"I know you can manage, but I am worried for you." I tell her. "You have never been so careful to conceal an injury before. What makes this one different? Why did Anders not heal it?"_

_"He...He won't heal this sort of wound." She refuses to look at me. "He shouted at me because of it, but it wasn't my fault. We weren't winning and Hawke was...Hawke was pinned down, the Tal Vashoth were throwing their horrible javelins and hemming us in, then there...then there was a qunari mage and he looked so in pain and so angry but his magic was so..." a violent shudder wracks her lithe body and she moves closer to the fire, "...so strong. Anders cannot craft an offensive spell to save his life, and mine were not doing enough so I...I took my knife and I..."_

_**Ah. Now I understand her reticence to speak. She has used blood magic...but she is not horrified by the fact that she ventured to that place; that she accessed that power. This means that she must have done this before. I have met a maleficar and listened to his story. I have killed other maleficar who attacked me on sight. there are two types of mages who turn to the power in their blood and they are either creatures of darkness or creatures of desperation. Knowing of Merrill what I do, she must be one of the latter.**_

_"Please, Merrill." I ask yet again. "Let me see the wound."_

_Slow, tremulous, she extends her left arm. I wince at the gash in the skin and the other scars I see on her flesh, legends of the times she has called on the power of her blood. It is no wonder to me now that her clan expelled her. While the Dalish do not fear magic or treat it the way the humans of Thedas or the qunari, they do not condone the use of blood magic any more than the other races. Merrill has been given a gentler punishment for her supposed crime._

_"I told you it wasn't bad." She insists, but still winces when I begin to wash the wound with water. "I mean...it is bad for the reason it is there...it is bad because...because blood magic is bad."_

_"Is that what Anders shouted at you?" I ask, watching her nod, seeing the uncertainty in her glowing gaze._

_"Y...yes." She admits after a moment. "He shouted at me and then Hawke shouted at him and I told them not to worry, that I didn't need...didn't need healing. Anders said that I had better damn well not...that I could have lost control and become an abomination and killed us all but I...but it's not like that, Salem." Tears well in her eyes. "I don't think it is like...by the Creators...you must despise me."_

_I opened the jar of salve and begin rubbing the herb paste into the wound to help it close and stave off infection. I catch Merill's eyes as I work and she looks like woman poised on the edge of giving into despair. She believes that I will hate her; that I will revile her as most humans and elves and dwarves do._

_"For what reason did you spill this blood, Merrill?" I question her and her eyebrows lift in surprise that my words are not full of loathing and condemnation._

_"To...to save Hawke. And Varric. And Anders." She answers._

_I finish with the salve and begin to wrap her arm with linen bandages, speaking as I do so. "Then you shed this blood in the defense of others." I tell her what I believe is truth. "There is power in blood, even for those of us who have no magic. If we bleed solely for ourselves, then the power will corrupt us as power always does. But if you shed that blood for others, for their defense, for their protection, to save **their** lives, with barely a thought for your own...that manner of power cannot be corrupted by the demons in the Fade. To shed blood for others is to love, and pride, desire, rage, sloth, envy, and all other malevolent spirits cannot dwell in a heart where love resides."_

_Merill's lips part in shock and her eyes no longer just shine in the firelight in the manner of the elves. There are tears in her eyes and they slip down her cheeks. She works her lips back and forth as though to speak, but it is as though her voice has been stolen. I finish tying off the bandage._

_"If you shed blood in sacrifice, Merill," I tell her, "then I will neither fault you nor revile you. I know what it is to bleed for another. I know what it is to die for another. Do not let the words of the self-righteous dissuade you, and do not make these scars upon your body reminders of your selfishness and your own power. Instead, let them be the reminder that you loved so fiercely and were so devoted to your friends that your body bears witness. When you are old and when your vallaslin have faded, you will still look at these scars. Let them remind you..." My own voice broke here as I felt every scar on my body cry out with my words, "...let them remind you how well you **loved**."  ****_

* * *

     I emerged from my reverie to find Merrill finishing the bandaging of my wounds. Her hands were so gentle and so kind...but they were not Leliana's hands. I missed the touch of my bard, my wife, of feeling the thick calluses on the tips of her fingers roving over my scars. I missed hearing her voice whispering in my ears, moaning beneath my touch, singing the sun to sleep, and speaking to me, thick and filled with emotion. 

     "Good as new." Merrill grinned at me as she cleaned up the area beside me and threw my bloodstained bandages in the fire. 

     I felt it an apt metaphor as I watched the flames consume the cloth and burn my blood. The blood within my veins burned also, consumed by a longing and an ache that would never leave my heart. The ache that once Leliana filled, the jagged edge of my heart and my soul that her own jagged edges fit against with perfection unmatched. 

     "Thank you." I told her, smiling to myself as she dashed about the room, clearly anxious to look in on Ryker Hawke and see how she fared. 

     I did not begrudge her the madcap rush away. I once knew what it was to care for someone so deeply that my mind teetered on the edge of sanity. I knew what it was to have my heart in my throat and my thoughts creating a vast abyss of terror. I could imagine horrific things, and I felt certain that Merrill could as well. She looked back at me from the door. 

     "Rest." She bade me, following it with a murmured, wishful hope. "Please."

     "I will try." I replied, and I would, for her sake. 

     It was not her fault that I could find no respite or healing in slumber. It was not her fault that the wounds in my body reminded me of darker times and sweeter times. It was not her fault when I closed my eyes, I indulged in the fantasy of meeting Leliana's eyes once more, taking her in my arms, kissing her and affirming that we were alive and once more free to love each other. 

     I could dream those dreams. I could indulge in those fantasies. What I could not do was make them come to pass. Leliana had been called by a god to change and save the world. To see me living once again would break her faith, but the temptation was too strong. In spite of what many believed, I was, indeed, only human. However, unlike so many who were human, I possessed the great ability to break my own heart. 

     _I need to leave Kirkwall, now. For a little while, at least._

 

 


	22. A Mission and a Seeker

** The Lowtown Clinic   
** **Kathyra**

     " _Unrest in the Gallows. Unsure why. Will find more. Be watchful."_

     My eyes strained to see the small letters, written in Kestrel's careful, precise hand. Leliana's messenger bird returned earlier than I expected, which, due to past happenings, gave us cause to be wary. Things had been quiet during the four months since the qunari departed, but one never knew what to expect in the city of Kirkwall. As if in answer to the direction of my thoughts, a knock rang at the door. 

     My brow furrowed as I tucked the message from Kestrel into my pocket and released the bird that would return to her carrying a reply and message of my own. It was all too rare for a knock to sound against our door. The clinic had an established presence in the city now, and people knew that during daylight hours, if a red scarf hung in the window, they had no need of knocking. 

      _Leliana would not knock, and neither would Rylie. If it is a patient, it is one new to Kirkwall._

     I made my way down the stairs from the loft and into the clinic proper, wondering who might be on the other side of the door. I reached for the knife at the small of my back, grasping the hilt with one hand and pulling the door open with the other. When I set eyes on the visitor, I abandoned my blade in favor of taking the offered hand and pulling the woman it belonged to into a fierce embrace. 

     I smelled wool, leather, steel, and the sweat of travel. Underneath that lay the familiar fragrance of myrrh and lilies, the scent of an old friend. I did not know what brought her here, though I doubted it was a social visit. After holding her close a moment more, I pulled out of the embrace and took in every inch of her: dusky caramel skin, obsidian hair cropped short since the last time we met, and the same intelligent, gleaming cinnamon eyes. 

     "It is good to see you again, Kathyra." The rich accent fell against my ears and I could not resist a smile. 

     "It has been far too long, Cassandra." I pulled the door wider and stepped aside, allowing her entrance into the clinic. 

     She appraised it all in the space of a breath and turned back to me. "You seem quite at home here." She observed. "It appears that this assignment suits you."

     "It possesses its own unique pleasures and miseries." I assented, showing her to a chair, unsurprised by how tired she appeared. The journey from Val Royeaux to Kirkwall was neither short nor easy. "Please, sit. Might I offer you anything? Food? Water?"

     Cassandra shook her head. "As much as I would like to, I cannot stay. I have come bearing orders for myself and Leliana. Orders from the Sunburst throne."

     "Ah." I turned my face from Cassandra's all too perceptive eyes, knowing that she would see my countenance fall regardless of where we stood, but I needed the illusion of privacy. 

     I knew that Leliana's appointment as Justinia's Left Hand would take her from me more often, to places farther away than she had gone before. She would be away longer, and I would not be able to venture to those places with her. Our work in Kirkwall was too important. But I would worry for her. Dear, blessed Maker, how I would worry. 

      _With Cassandra here, I face the threat of being away from the woman I love for perhaps a month, or, most likely, more than that. I will know where she is and how she fares, for we still have the messenger birds, but I still am uncomfortable with..._ I stopped my selfish thoughts, remembering the pain that another endured... _Salem Cousland has lost Leliana for a lifetime, and she still has the courage to live, though she must wake every day to the knowledge of her loss. I am not so strong._

     "It is not for long, Kathyra, and not so very far away." Cassandra assured me, imparting at least a small measure of comfort. "We will be traveling to Ostwick. Most Holy received a letter, unsealed and unsigned. It insisted that the Right and Left hands come to Ostwick. We will be met there by an informant who has, according to the letter, invaluable information they do not trust to convey in print."

     I stared at Cassandra for a long, silent moment. She had changed so much from the woman I knew as the Right Hand of Divine Beatrix. Beatrix gave Cassandra immense power when the initiate Seeker had been young, untested, untried, but powerful and passionate. The former divine purposefully molded Cassandra in the image that she desired. Beatrix forged Cassandra into a ruthless, merciless, adamantine fortress that would not hear of compassion, commiseration, or empathy. 

     Justinia, once Revered Mother Dorothea, changed all of that. She also made Cassandra her Right Hand, but she tore down the bitterness and jadedness that once stained Cassandra's soul. She restored Cassandra's faltering and all-but-forgotten faith. Under Justinia's guidance, Cassandra learned forgiveness, strengthened her faith, and become a woman that I, once her watchdog and her conscience, was proud to call my friend. 

     Leliana, however, was not so quick to see the change. Cassandra once inexcusably mistreated her, and no matter my defense of her, no matter Justinia's entreaties that they work together as left and right hands, Leliana still treated her counterpart with apprehension, distrust, and not a little anger. Of course, I knew and understood the reason for my bard's ire. Leliana was quick to forgive one who had slighted her...but Cassandra had insulted, defamed, and physically threatened  _Salem_. 

     Leliana did not, with ease, forgive someone who harmed the woman she loved. We were very alike in that respect, she and I. The woman who now sat upon the Sunburst throne was the woman whose room I had set aflame after tying her to a chair, locking her inside the inferno. I still did not trust Justinia, no matter that she became the Divine. Leliana said that the woman I described Dorothea as being was nowhere near the woman she met when she recovered coherency after her fortnight of torture. 

      _We are all allowed to change our hearts,_ I thought, a small smile quirking my lips as I took a cup from the shelves and filled it with water.  _Perhaps, if I am willing to believe that Dorothea has changed from her former ways, then Leliana will be able to see the changes in Cassandra. Perhaps, the Right and Left hands can work in cooperation, as it was meant to be...as it has so often not been._

     "Why, in the Maker's name, is Dorothea sending her right and left hands for a simple exchange of information?" I asked, scrutinizing Cassandra, knowing that she would honor our friendship and history and give me the entirety of the truth. 

     "The letter ordered that we appear in person, or our informant will refuse to meet with us." Cassandra's lips thinned with her frustration. "Most Holy thought it best to honor the request. In these days of unrest, we cannot afford to discount any information, no matter the considerable pride of one who would  _demand_ our presence."

     She finished her words with the ubiquitous disgusted noise that had become a thing of legend. I smiled and walked to her, pressing the cup of water into her hand. Cassandra wasted no time, moving the cup to her lips and drinking deep. the cup did not move from her lips until she drained the water, and I shook my head at her stubbornness, even in small things. Some aspects of her character had not altered in the slightest. 

     "Thank you." Cassandra said, setting the cup aside on the table I used for preparing herbs. "Is Sister Nightingale here?" She inquired. "We need to leave as soon as possible for Ostwick in order to arrive at the day and time specified in the letter."

     Cassandra reached into a pouch she wore at her belt and withdrew a carefully folded parchment. She extended it to me and I took it. 

     "You and Leliana have skills in matters such as this that I shall never attain. Frankly, I find the very idea of sculpting a man's character out of nothing but thought and conjecture beyond disturbing." Cassandra stated, forthright as ever. 

     I examined the parchment and the words within, wincing at the day and time specified by the alleged informant. Leliana and Cassandra would have to exhaust themselves in order to reach Ostwick in time. I pursed my lips as I read it, agreeing with Cassandra about the audacity of the sender. 

     "Well?" Cass inquired, and I held the parchment back out to her. 

     "Leliana will be able to tell you more." I stated the fact with both knew. "But it is a strange missive. The wielder of the pen is obviously educated and knowledgeable, while the parchment itself is cheap. There was no wax seal, you said?" 

     Cassandra nodded. 

     I pursed my lips. "A message meant to be kept secret is most often sealed. Cassandra, fro all that I know, I would wager that the hand who delivered this to the Sunburst throne is the hand of your informant. You do not send an unsealed message with a courier, no matter the level of integrity that they possess."

     "I see." Cassandra frowned. "I would like Leliana's opinion of it, as well. Have you any idea when she might return?"

     "Soon." I replied. "I asked her to go to the docks, as we are due a shipment of blood lotus from the Fallow Mire. But, while she is not here, Cassandra, I feel that I should warn you. During the time we have spent together in the last two years, I have borne witness to the changes of your heart. I know that Leliana has seen these changes as well, but you have hurt her in ways that are...difficult to transcend."

     Cassandra, the proud, stoic warrior, allowed shame to cross her features. "I know." She admitted, her words weighty with remorse. "I could not see it then, blinded by my anger against her...blinded because I could see the hand of the Maker direct upon her life as it has never been upon mine. I fought and strove all of my life to be worthy of the Maker's blessing. I have dedicated myself in service since I was a young woman, and then I witnessed a woman with a stained past: a seductress, an assassin, and a liar, be  _blessed_ by our silent God. In my bitterness and my envy, I treated her poorly. For that, I am truly sorrowful."

     I narrowed my eyes at her, though her words, laced with humility, made me believe that true change had arrived in her heart, at long last. 

     "I am not the one who needs to hear those words, Cassandra." I spoke to her as I did in the days of old between us: kind, but stern. 

     The Right Hand nodded. "I am aware." She assured me. "I hope to reconcile with her, Kathyra. I have seen the measure of my wrongs during the ignorance of my earlier years. I allowed Beatrix to change me and to silence my conscience in favor of my orders, and for that I am ashamed. Justinia implored me to speak with Leliana, to attempt to mend past hurts and forge a bond between us. I pray that it will be easier than when Beatrix sat upon the Sunburst throne, for Sister Nightingale and I both love and respect Justinia. Perhaps our mutual love for Most Holy will help us respect one another."

     The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I shuddered at the thought of loving the woman I knew as Dorothea. The woman who used the gifts and kindnesses of others to elevate her own name. The woman who had been the cause of Leliana's betrayal and torture. The woman who broke her vow of poverty and lived in private opulence until I destroyed her luxury by fire. However, had it not been for Dorothea, Leliana would not be the paragon of the Maker's love that she was. The threads of fate were woven in patterns that we could never grasp. We could but simply see the intersections of souls and lives and wonder at the vagaries of time and chance. 

     "Speak to Leliana as you have spoken to me." I advised my friend. "She is no stranger to the forgiveness of grave sins. But, I would advise that you also apologize for the way in which you treated Salem Cousland. I will give you guarantee that your behavior towards Leliana's late wife is what angered her more than any pain you inflicted on her alone."

     "Years have passed and still you are looking out for me, Kathyra." Cassandra's voice held a teasing note which left me flabbergasted. 

     "You are still my friend, Cass." I affirmed my words with an emphatic nod, preparing to speak further when the clinic door opened and Leliana entered, an over-stuffed satchel on her back, filled with blood lotus. 

     The clinic filled with the pungent scent of iron and rosewater, but I paid no attention to the smell, instead watching as Leliana registered Cassandra's presence. I took in the subtle nuance of her body language: the shifting of her body so that her stronger right side protected her weaker left, her free hand rising to the hand that held the satchel strap so that she could release a catch for a hidden blade, if needed. 

      _She still distrusts Cassandra,_ I thought as I studied them.  _I am quite certain she will not be happy about the journey to Ostwick, solely in the company of her counterpart. Maker, give me the grace to mediate between these two._

     "Cassandra," Leliana addressed the Seeker, looking as though the name left a sour taste in her mouth, "what brings you to Kirkwall."

     Cassandra held the letter she had shown me aloft, and extended it to Leliana. My lover slung the satchel off of her shoulder and set it beside the table before reaching for the letter, unfolding it, and taking in its contents. Her lips thinned and turned down at the corners and her eyes sparked, a terrifying, icy blue. She finished the letter and began reading it a second time to search for clues, or a code, or anything amiss within the crafting of the missive itself. When she finished, apologies filled her eyes and her aggrieved gaze met mine. I nodded my understanding and Leliana returned the letter to her counterpart.

     Allow me time to pack my clothes and gather my weapons." She said. "Then we shall be on our way."

     She moved past me and walked up the steps to the loft. My heart shivered inside my chest and I felt a sense of cold foreboding, a sense that misfortune would befall them. I did not give voice to my thoughts, but they did not stop repeating in my mind over and over again. 

      _Please, Leliana, please don't go. Please don't go. Please, please, please...don't go._


	23. Disquiet and Promises

**The Lowtown Clinic** **  
** **Leliana**

     I argued with myself as I walked upstairs to the loft. I knew, when Justinia anointed my head with oil and when, out of sight of any witness, I had sworn to her an oath of loyalty. Her predecessor, Beatrix, had attempted to coerce me into making a similar oath in order to destroy my marriage vows. Justinia, however, asked for no such thing. She did not ask me to end my mission in Kirkwall, nor to give up the comfort of Kathyra as a lover. 

      _In fact, Justinia told me on the day I became her Left Hand, that she owed Kathyra more than she could ever repay. In the world of the Game the Divine and I both played, when gold will not cover a debt, it is a life that is owed._

     I reached the loft and walked to the chests in the dark corners of the room, in which our armor and weapons were stored. I thought of the women waiting for me downstairs, one to whom I entrusted my heart, the other with whom I shared a vow. That vow should have made us sisters, should have bound us close together, but...but there were so many ways in which I still did not trust Cassandra Pentaghast.

      _And that is because you do not **know** Cassandra Pentaghast, _ my voice of reason, a voice that sounded so much like Salem, spoke inside my own thoughts.  _Do not let past wounds fester, Leliana. Forgive, as you know she would have done._

     I shook my head, attempting to clear it of that voice. There were days when I listened to reason...and days when I did not. On this day, I did not feel as though I wished to. I had come home to find worry in my lover's eyes, and a woman, whose fate and mine were intertwined, awaiting me with a mission for the woman to whom  _I_ owed a life. I opened the chest that held my belongings. With great care, I withdrew the leather cuirass that had survived the Fifth Blight. 

     The leather still held the sheen of a heavy polish, for I took considerable care of it, even after the years gone by. There were scorch marks that held sonnets, patches that retained legends, and stitching that bore a tale worthy of being women into the constellations. I inspected the buckles and straps, finding them satisfactory and in working order. I set the cuirass aside and continued unpacking my armor. 

     The lat time it witnessed combat was during the qunari attack on Kirkwall. I could not lie that when I saw the cuirass, it reminded me of the two punctures that should have been in the leather, the two arrows that should have pierced me in vital places. I turned aside from the rest of my unpacking and traced my fingers over the places where the arrows should have pierced me through. 

     "I still have nightmares about that day." Kathyra's voice traveled across the loft floor and I looked up to see her standing at the top of the stairs. "I wake and I can still see blood on my hands...I still weep over that loss."

     I offered my physician a soft smile, filled with the love and respect I held in my heart for her. "You feel that you failed him...and that you also failed me."

     "I cannot repay a life, Leliana." Kathyra raised her hands in the universal gesture of emptiness and supplication. 

     "It is not your life to repay, Kat." I reminded her, gentle. "It is my debt. And, someday, I will settle it, before your eyes, my eyes, and the Maker."

     "It might not be my life to repay." Kathyra walked to the chest and began helping me prepare for the journey. She lifted my coat of chainmail, which she kept well-oiled and repaired. "But it is my heart, not my life, that I owe, Leliana. He...the one who saved you...spared both your life and my heart. We both have debts."

      She had her back to me, but even so, she could not disguise her emotions, nor did she have the desire to do so. She simply did not wish to speak words of ill-fortune before my departure. However, I had come to trust Kathyra's intuition. She had saved me times beyond counting...she was a safe hand in which to leave my broken heart. 

     I loved her. 

     "You do not wish me to leave." I spoke her thoughts aloud, not needing to hide behind an inquiry of false innocence. 

     "As usual, you understand my mind." Kathyra turned to me, extending my sgian dubh in its sheath, for me to affix to my boot when I had finished dressing. "I cannot shake the feeling that something will go wrong...that you are in danger."

     "So," I raised a quizzical brow, "you intuited that I will be riding to Ostwick with Cassandra Pentaghast."

     Kathyra shook her head, laughing soft and low. "All levity aside, Leliana," her tone grew serious, "I beg you to at least...at least  _attempt_ to mend your rift with Cassandra. The two of you are now the hands of one body. You  _must_ work, if not in harmony,  _at least_ in unison. Cassandra herself wishes to reconcile, to atone. Please allow it. You will need her protection and her friendship."

     I pursed my lips and said nothing, letting my refusal to answer give Kathyra my response. Ignoring her words and wishes, I lifted my chainmail tunic, letting the heavy garment settle on my shoulders. Even though the sound of the tunic settling, I heard Kathyra's heavy sigh. I winced as I began to pull free the strands of my hair caught in the links of metal. 

     A warm, callused hand covered mine, a hand that knew battle and healing...a hand that had been clasped by Death's own talons and did not succumb. Kathyra freed my hair, waiting for me to, at last, look into her eyes and hear her words, as she knew that I would. I fought against it for as long as I could, allowing Kathyra to help me with the straps and buckles of my cuirass, bracers, greavers, and boots. She knelt before me and concealed the sgian dubh in my left boot; when she stood, I conquered my petty pride and met her gaze, willing, now, to hear what she would say. 

     "Leliana," Kathyra spoke, low and soothing, the same voice with which she interceded with Death, "I did not wish to speak of this, because I know the pain it causes you, but I must now speak to ease the disquiet in my heart." Her fingers reached out and touched the hollow of my throat, where once I had worn my marriage ring. "I know that you put away Salem's ring." Kathyra murmured, and my heart panged. "I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been."

     The utter compassion and complete empathy in her tone caused my eyes to mist over with grief. "Worse than torture." I admitted, and a single tear fell. 

     "I know, my darling." Kathyra wiped away the tear and gazed at me for a silent moment, her leaf-green eyes filled with love and strength. "I also know that you did such a difficult thing for a reason."

     "To better serve my Maker." I told her and she nodded. "To move forward in my life."

     "Forgive me now for what I say, Leliana." Kathyra entreated. "But if you are willing to lay aside the memory of your vow to Salem Cousland...is it not time to forgive the things done to her by others? You cannot still champion her cause and cling fast to old grievances if you have come to the place where you are willing to live without the constant reminder of her."

     Kathyra's words stung like wine poured into a wound. They hurt in their own right, but they also reminded me of the day I walked the walls of Vigil's keep, furious with Alistair for choosing Miranda Cauthrien, the woman who had tortured my lover nearly to death, as his queen. Salem spoke to me then as Kathyra spoke to me now...with a razor-edged tenderness that left a gaping, but clean wound. The truth of my physician's words pierced me deep within my heart and I knew I could not fight them. 

     "You are...you are not wrong." I admitted. "You are not wrong, but the dreams still haunt and hurt and linger. I look upon Cassandra's face and I remember her with her eyes on fire and her sword drawn, its point aimed at Salem's heart. I do not know how to silence those memories, for they are so painful. Those recollections  _hurt_ , Kat...so badly that even now they steal the breath from my lungs and they cause me..." my body worked in perfect harmony with my soul as two tears fell, "...they cause me to weep."

     "My darling girl." Once again, Kathyra wiped away my tears. "I understand your anguish, for I have known that hurt. I also know who  _you_ are. You are the harbinger of change in  _this_ world. You are the message that the Maker desires to spread across the land. To love unto the heart's fullest potential. You know as well as I, to effect change one must accept change. Accept Cassandra's." Kathyra looked down at me, seeing the reticence still stamped on my features. "Like me under Leron, and you under Marjolaine, Cassandra was taken in the flower of her youth and molded and changed by someone far more powerful than our bardmasters. Beatrix wished to craft Cassandra in her own image, and the late Divine, as we both know, did not have the Maker's love in her heart. She bent Thedas to her will, using Cass as her instrument, a figurehead and enforcer. Cassandra was used as we were used, forged as we were forged. Look back upon yourself, Leliana. Look back upon me."

     I shuddered as I thought of the woman I once was. The bard trained by Marjolaine disdained the truth and thought herself above it.  _That_ Leliana believed that all of love possessed a bladed edge; that passion expressed itself in bruises, bite-marks, and shouted words. She believed that, if love was professed, the pleasures of the body could be taken from her whenever desired, regardless of her feelings or consent. She felt no remorse for the kill, the blackmail, the extortion, the adultery. 

     Kathyra saw realization dawn in my eyes and she nodded. "I see the self-reproach in your gaze that has haunted my eyes for years." She said. "But those lives are who we  _were_. We have been blessed, Leliana. Blessed that, somehow, two hears, crafted solely out of love, reached out to our broken, worthless lives and healed them. Without Giselle, without Salem, Kathyra and Leliana as we know us would not exist. Cassandra has a heart, but Beatrix twisted it, as Leron did mine and as Marjolaine did yours."

     I nodded, humbling myself and realizing Kathyra's intent. "Love saved us from who we were." I breathed, and she nodded. "But Cassandra has not yet known that manner of love."

     "Yes." Kathyra rested her hands on my hips and drew me closer to her. "Very few are blessed as we were. There is no guarantee that Cassandra will find the other half of her soul, though I pray she does. Already, Justinia has changed her with a mentor's love, and shown her, perhaps, a mother's love. But Justinia belongs to Thedas. She will never be to Cassandra what you are able to be."

     "And what is that?" I asked, reaching up and lacing my hands behind her neck. "A friend? A confidant? A counterpart?"

     "All of that. And perhaps something Cassandra needs more. A sister." Kathyra's eyes sparked with love and desire as she pulled my body flush against hers. "At least try. For my sake. Please."

     "Kathyra, I have left before, for longer periods of time than this journey promises to be." I did not like the furrow in her brow or the worry in her eyes. "Why, now, are you so troubled?"

     "I do not rightly know." She answered. "But there is disquiet in my spirit. Promise me you will be careful."

     "I swear it." I made yet another vow. 

     Kathyra molded her body to mine and pressed her lips against my own. I smiled into the kiss, relishing and savoring the taste of my lover and the feel of her warmth so near to me. I would miss her and I would worry, but I knew that this would be but the first of many such separations. Suddenly, I had no desire to leave the comfort of her body and the tumultuous life that we lived in Kirkwall. But I had made a promise. I had a calling to honor. 

     After a long moment and impassioned kiss, Kathyra withdrew, sparing me the pain of doing so. She tucked a loose lock of my hair behind my ear, and tried to smile.

     "I love you." She murmured, and I knew she would say nothing further, for those three words were both our greetings to each other and our partings from one another. 

     I lifted my bow and fixed it to my back, then reached out and took Kathyra's hand, looking her in the eye. "I love you too."

     We needed to say nothing more. With trepidation in my spirit and determination in my heart, I walked down the stairs and back into the clinic where Cassandra waited. 


	24. A Gentle Rebuke

**The Lowtown Clinic** **  
** **Cassandra**

     This room felt so painfully like a home. From the bundles of fragrant herbs hanging above the fireplace to the shelves lined with labeled vials of tonics, tinctures, and medicines. It all spoke of comfort, peace, and protection. I always respected Kathyra's abilities, her great skill with healing, but I never knew that she had the power to...the power to take a foreign and strange place and craft from it a haven. Standing here, in this place, made my heart pang with...with regret. 

      _I resented Kathyra so very much, years ago. I knew why Beatrix attached the physician to my hip and it rankled my pride. I felt as though Beatrix did not trust me to keep care of myself and those under my command and that she tied Kathyra to me as a guardian. As though I were a child...even though Kathyra never treated me as such._

     I walked around the room, looking at all the small touches that made this more than a clinic...it made it a house of healing. Not so long ago, I might not have felt the difference, or even known it for a difference. But, even now, my age notwithstanding, each new day held new lessons, new revelations, new understandings. So much of life was stolen from me, and I had not even known. So many lies had been given me, and I believed them. 

      _This has been a time of revelation, a time of learning, a time of humility. As Most Holy tells me, unto everything a time and season is given. Now is a season of unrest and discontent, and I do not know when it will end. I do, however, know the one who **will** end it. _

     My mind drifted back to the day my world changed; the day that Revered Mother Dorothea, a mother of the ignominious Valence Cloister, rose to the Sunburst throne and become Justinia the Fifth, the Divine--the most powerful woman in Thedas. I had performed in my ceremonial place as the Right Hand at her confirmation, but had no idea of knowing if I would retain the position. Every Divine, since the founding of the Chantry as we knew it, had chosen a new right and left hand. I believed Justinia would be no different. 

      _I did not know why, but the thought of returning to the Order, of being nothing more than a Seeker again, filled me with such dread. I had become so accustomed to walking with the powerful, carrying myself as Beatrix instructed me to...taking pride in the fact that I held her ear and her confidence, hating as she hated, removing what she disapproved of, enforcing every word that fell from her lips without listening...without listening._

     My hands clenched into fists as memories of my greatest failures draped themselves across my shoulders, a cloak of guilt and self-recrimination. My dreams and recollections were full of moments that, at the time of their happening, I thought myself to be in the right. Now, I knew. Another held a reflective glass against my soul and I saw that...that while the largesse of my decisions had not been incorrect, the manner in which I carried them out had been...lacking in honor and grace. 

     Above me, I heard footsteps and my heart constricted inside my chest at the thought of the task ahead. For others, it might have been simple, but others did not have the history that I possessed with Leliana Cousland. To say bad blood lay between us would have been a gross and negligent understatement. I had wronged her in so many ways, and now we were meant to work together as one. This task was the second that Justinia asked me to undertake, and, while I dreaded it, it was easier than the first task to which she set me, a vow she required I uphold...  __

* * *

_I stand outside of the great hall in the Divine's tower, my spirit torn within itself. Today, I held aloft the ceremonial sword, my badge of office as the Right Hand. I stood on Revered Mother Dorothea's right side and watched as she became Justinia. I watched my life as I knew it vanish before my very eyes, for, as the first action taken after Dorothea swore her oath and took her new name, she called for the execution of Beatrix's left hand._

_Sweat poured down my face and stung my eyes as I waited for her to say something of me, to command my fate with the most powerful voice in all of Thedas. Nothing happened. Now, I wait, watching the setting of the sun, looking from the height of the tower to the buildings allotted to the Order of Seekers. It has been so long since I followed that calling: my first and original purpose. My thoughts are so thick and tangled that I do not hear the soft footsteps approaching until a hand rests on my shoulder._

_Alarmed, I turn and reach for the hilt of the sword I no longer carry. My badge of office, my trusted blade, has been removed from my side. I feel lost, cast adrift into the open see, looking into the eyes of a young Chantry sister._

_"Seeker Pentaghast," my name sounds like a question in her timorous voice, "Most Holy requests your presence before the Sunburst throne."_

_I square my shoulders and nod, a lump forming in my throat that is too large to speak past. I make my way through the doors that I have walked through countless times, confident, self-assured, and...yet...proud. Perhaps even arrogant. Now, however, everything is uncertain. The hall that stretches out before me now seems as an ocean of fears realized. My footsteps echo in the emptiness, for all others have departed. The quiet itself is more daunting than an army set against me. This is the house of the greatest power in Thedas, and it has never been this silent._

_"You have nothing to fear, Cassandra." The voice from the Sunburst throne is kind and warm, warm like the hearth fire in a tavern when winter rages outside. "Come forward."_

_I quicken my steps and reach the dais, stopping at the foot of the stairs, which I used to climb without hesitation, knowing always that I was welcome beside the throne. I got to my knees, showing proper obeisance before Divine Justinia, wondering why she has called me to her. There are no others in my sight, no other to whom she might give my rank and the burdens I carry beneath it._

_Once again, I hear footsteps and I see a sight I have never before witnessed. Divine Justinia stands before me, her throne, her seat of power, left empty. Beatrix never abandoned the dais, her elevation above the people: the tallest place in the highest tower in Thedas...the place that the Maker first would touch, should he return to Thedas once more._

_"Rise, Cassandra." She orders, and her voice is kind._

_I stand and see that she holds the sword I carried as the Right Hand. I do not let my gaze linger, not wishing to seem hungry for power or title, and lift my eyes to hers. I tremble in my spirit as I meet her gaze, for there is a light within her blue eyes that I have never before seen. Beatrix's obsidian eyes had held a light, a light that I thought stemmed from her connection to the Maker...but I realize now that I was wrong. Beatrix's eyes were cold, calculating, brutal in their intensity. They struck fear in the hearts of men and inspired obedience through the power she possessed. Justinia's eyes gleam as though her very spirit is shining through them. There is a radiant peace within her gaze and it blankets me in a warmth heretofore unknown to me. I want to shield my eyes from the luminescence that glimmers even in the dim lighting of the torches, a light that threatens, not to flay me alive, but to lift me up amongst the stars, show unto me the sun, and strip away any impurity that might lie within my soul._

_"I am your servant, Most Holy." The words fall from my lips, an ancient oath of the Seekers, to serve the mortal voice of the Maker and to do our god's bidding in the world._

_"As of this moment, Cassandra Pentaghast, you are no longer my servant." Justinia speaks and her words echo through the marble halls, causing me to shiver, for what I have feared is coming to pass. I am to lose all that I know, and return to something now foreign unto me._

_"Command me as you will." I whisper, struggling to find my strength, but in the presence of this woman, it is vanquished without ever having been brought to bear._

_"It is my wish that you continue the path that you walked with my predecessor." Justinia says, and my heart quickens within my chest. "I would have you serve as my Right Hand, should you so with that mantle once more grace your shoulders."_

_"I..." my words feel caught in my chest like a bear in a trap, a broken, bleeding creature of power shackled and torn, "...I would be honored."_

_"As would I." Justinia replies, startling me yet again. She commands the greatest power in Thedas. Her word is law, even above that of emperors and kings. She lessens her office in saying that I, a mere Seeker, honor her by being willing to serve as I have served for many years._

_Silence falls once again, bearing down on me, dragging me, like an anchor, beneath the tension that rises. I feel that she is waiting for me to do something, but I do not know what it is that she wants from me. I am afraid to ask, afraid to look into the blinding blue light of her eyes yet again, however, I feel that I must act. I lift my hand to reach for the sword. As it clasps the scabbard, Justinia's hand covers my own, her touch almost burning me. My arm feels paralyzed, I do not think I can move it, even though Most Holy's touch is the lightest of pressures._

_"You swore a vow on this blade to my predecessor, did you not?" Justinia asks, her feather-iron grip upon my hand filling me with awe and terror._

_**She could command with a whisper, should she so desire...who is this new Divine?**_

_"I did, Most Holy." I answer. "And I am prepared to take that same vow again, before you."_

_Justinia's features remain unmoved, but I see her canny eyes, thinking, restructuring her own kingdom. Something will change here; I can sense that. And I, as ever I have, prepare for that change. I remember the words of my vow to Divine Beatrix; the pride that filled me on that day, as a young woman, when I stood before the woman whose life I had saved, and who asked me in return to be her hand upon the face of Thedas. I had stood before her and been honored, with Galyan at my side._

_**Galyan...** I think of him, and not a little pain pierces through my heart... **why, Galyan? Why?**_

_My mind pulls away from those thoughts as a slow smile spreads across Justinia's face, beneficence and kindness. In her eyes lives knowledge, wisdom, and understanding, and I begin to wonder what manner of woman has taken the Sunburst throne._

_"You know the words of the ancient oath?" She asks, and I nod my head. "Speak them now." She orders, and my lips part._

_"I, Cassandra Pentaghast, do lay my blood and life upon this oath. I swear myself unto the Chant of Light, unto our Maker, and to his voice across Thedas. To you, Most Holy, I swear my fealty, loyalty, and complete submission. I subject myself to your will, to act as your Right Hand upon Thedas, to become your voice, your hands, your beliefs, and your influence. I lift this sword in promise and under oath. I am mine no more, Most Holy, but yours."_

_I wait for Justinia to follow the ancient tradition, and relinquish the sword into my hands, anoint me with ceremonial oil...the oil of frankincense and myrrh. It is the oil that covers the bodies of the dead, to preserve them. It is also used to anoint the Left and Right Hands of the Divine, to symbolize that they have died to themselves and embraced a new life, a new identity, and a new set of ideals and purpose._

_"Cassandra Pentaghast," Justinia speaks my name and, in her voice, I shudder at the sound of it. "I ask you now to renounce that vow."_

_My eyes widen in shock and my ears struggle to comprehend her words. She has asked me to be her right hand. I have agreed. My oath is sworn...is this a trick? Some twist of the Game that I am not prepared for because I do not take part in that infernal madness? Why does she ask such a thing of me?_

_"I do not..."_

_"Cassandra." Once again she says my name and I quiet. I quiet because in the tone of her voice there is peace. "When you became a Seeker and underwent your trials, what spirit came to you? What divine grace touched you in the wasteland?"_

_Her eyes do not stray from my own and I feel as though I am burning...but I do not know why. I often felt scorched by the ice in divine Beatrix's gaze...it is nothing compared to the flames in Justinia's._

_"I was touched by a spirit of faith, Most Holy." I murmur, feeling as though she asks a question to which she already knows the answer._

_"Tell me, Cassandra," She says my name with such gentleness, as though I am a small child, lost, adrift, and in need of comfort, "does the vow you made hold any place for faith of your own..." I can sense that her question is unfinished, and I repeat in my mind the words I spoke, a horrific realization dawning over me. I had sworn my faith to Beatrix, and with my faith, my conscience, my heart, and the manner in which I saw and reacted to the world. "...or does it make you the slave of my faith?" Justinia finishes her question and I feel young again, and full of shame and failure._

_As if I have been dealt a mortal wound, my life flashes before my eyes and I see the choices that I made that were not **my** choices. I see the words I have spoken that were not my words, the wounds I have dealt with a sword that I held in my hand, but did not wield. I see the mistakes that I have made and I tremble for I am more a monster than I know. Slow, and with purpose, I remove my hand from the sword I would have so willingly took up but a moment ago, and fall to my knees. There are tears in my eyes and they burn, for I have not wept in so long. _

_"Most Holy," I manage to choke out the words, "I am unworthy to take up this sword. I am unworthy of being your Right Hand. My faith has been defiled and I am not...I am no longer fit to wield that sacred blade."_

_A hand rests on my shoulder and it is the purity of cleansing fire, burning through my tabard and shirt and into my skin, snaking through muscle and vein until it ignites in my heart. I look up and there is the Divine, the most powerful woman in Thedas, upon her knees before me. The sword I am no longer fit to touch lies on the ground between us. Justinia holds me with her gaze, then reaches for the sleeve of her robe that covers the arm with the hand that scalds my shoulder._

_She pulls back her sleeve and, in the dim light, I see the slick and shiny skin of her arm, skin that should be soft and wrinkled with age. Instead there are hills of flesh, rivers and crags, and I recognize the deformation. Justinia has been burned, very badly burned...I wonder how far the damage extends, then follow her arm and see, now that the high collar required by pomp and circumstance has been removed, that the burns extend to her neck._

_"I once was a woman of the world." Justinia speaks, her words riveting me in place. "Before the Chantry, I had wealth, a quiet fame, and many lovers. Then, I discovered how quickly what was given might be taken. I became impoverished, untouchable, and in my destitution I came to the Chantry, made my vows of poverty and chastity, and, for a while, adhered to them. Then, I discovered the system of rank; that piety could bring prosperity, and I became the Revered Mother of the Chantry in Val Royeaux, the most prestigious of the houses of worship. I answered to none but the Nine and the Divine, and, in that place, I began to forget my vows. I knew wealth once more, and luxury, and more than once did I forego the vow of chastity in pursuit of carnal pleasures. I caved to the social mores, and there was one under my care and oversight, a half-elven woman of intelligence and learning, whose life I transformed into a morass of misery. I went so far as to believe that I owned her, for I had signed and sealed papers that swore her in service to the Chantry. My actions went uninhibited for so very long that I forgot my own humanity...I forgot I could do wrong."_

_I stare, wide-eyed at the woman who is known as the purest and most pious of all the land, the conduit for the Maker, should he break his silence, to speak through. She is meant to be the shepherd of our souls, but from her lips I hear the tale of a life ill-lived, and I wonder if I have departed my sanity and entered upon another universe, another place and time. I wish to strike myself so that I might know that I do not sleep, but I am held still, entranced by her gaze, affixed to her tale, unable to turn away._

_"Then, one night, as I sat before my fire and indulged in my luxuries, a hand trapped my body and bound me to my chair." Justinia's recollection continues and I do not know what to think or believe. "Then, for a horrific moment in time, a sinner, a murderer, a thief, and a liar berated me for my wrong-doings. She reached into the hideous ink-dark of my twisted heart and laid me bare. Then, as punishment, she lit the room afire, so that I would be forced to watch my ill-gotten gains be destroyed, and meditate on the vows that I had taken. These scars are from that night. In spite of the hospice we had in the Chantry, none of the healers there could mend my body or drive away the infection. Then, the one I had wronged so gravely, the half-elven physician, came to my bedside and healed my wounds, even though I had scarred her irrevocably. I should have learned forgiveness then, but the pain of my injuries brought anger and vengeance to my mind, not peace and quiet reflection. I healed and found that the many who served with and beneath me were incensed on my behalf, and in that, I found justification for the selfish woman I had been. It brings me shame to say that I went back to my wicked ways, using my rank and station to bring me wealth, to play the Game, and I bought and sold secrets in the houses of the mighty. I sold a secret that ruined the life of an innocent young woman...a young woman who stood in this very hall and left before you entered, a young woman who became my Left Hand."_

_My lips part in shock at the revelation, but I know and greatly dislike and disapprove of the woman who is now the Left Hand of the Divine. I have stood with her before Beatrix, and listened to insane claims of prophecy and visions. Beatrix informed me of the woman's past, that she claimed to speak for the Maker, and that she lay with a woman, an abomination Grey Warden who had done the impossible and felled an archdemon without forfeiting her own life._

_And yet, I had also stood in front of the same woman Beatrix demeaned, and felt my sword frozen at the sound of her voice; had my weapon flung away by an invisible hand so powerful that the blade still remained embedded in the wall of the Chantry in Amaranthine. I had fallen to my knees before a vision, and heard a voice that peeled my ears apart, stripped my soul down to its core, and poured fire within it. Still, I had not wished to believe, for the woman's past was steeped in blood and death, chicanery and lies, illicit affairs, feigned love, stolen secrets, and all manner of indecency that broke the Maker's laws, that defied and defiled the Chant of Light._

**_Leliana Cousland,_ ** _a shiver slithered down my spine at the name. **Leliana Cousland now stands as the Left Hand of this new Divine...this new Divine who has flayed me open with a look and the story of a life lived. I am bewildered...I do not know what to do...and even more pressing...I do not know quite who I am.**_

_"There is grace still in this world." Justinia speaks once more, and I fall into her words. "There is grace still in this world, for the physician who mended Leliana, who saved her life, is the one who left upon me these scars. The one who wounded also healed, and bade me send Leliana, when she had healed fully, to Ferelden. I cleansed my soul by saving the life of the bard, and she, in turn, by loving the Grey Warden, had a hand in sparing Thedas from a Blight. Then, Leliana returned to us, and serves the Maker in her own way. Why should I not give her further ability to do so?"_

_I cannot answer. the power of speech has been taken from me. I have been in the lives of those Justinia speaks of. I have seen them and spoken with them and fought alongside and against them. Their story is so intricate, so intertwined, and I see that, in the life I have lived, wielding the faith not mine and the sword not mine, that I have played the antagonist. Now, I kneel on the ground before the one who wishes me to...to become part of this inner circle of entwined fates and destinies. I realize that I am being offered forgiveness for a crime I had no knowledge of committing._

_"You did not know my name when I rose to this position, did you, Cassandra?" Justinia asks, and her voice is so very kind, so very soothing, like the voice of a loving mother speaking to her child._

_"I did not." Shame paints my words._

_"That is because, after Leliana healed and I helped her escape the Empress' men and sent her to Ferelden, I abdicated my position." Justinia states. "I requested that I be moved, and I became the Revered Mother at the Valence Cloister, an ignominious Chantry in an ignominious location. But, in that simple place, among, not simple, but **real** people, I learned what it is to know faith, to do good works, and to truly be devout. Make no mistake, Cassandra, I am capable of playing the Game with more skill than any bard or noble. But I no longer play it in the interest of myself and my station. I have come to my highest point already. Instead, I must play for the good of Thedas, in order to prepare this land for the return of their Maker, and his new prophet. Do you understand, Cassandra?"_

_I nod my head, still unable to control the tears spilling down my face, for I kneel before a woman of faith who is unlike any other who has attained this position. Justinia seeks nothing for herself, nor does she seek power for the Chantry. I can see it in her eyes and hear it in her heart...she seeks good for the people of Thedas. She seeks after a world where kindness reigns and where we all remember the god whom we serve. A god who sought to bring men out from the tyranny of magic. A god who called a prophet...the Chantry has gone astray in their following of Andraste. I see this now. The Chantry has seen the templars set in greater power than they should be, for we believe in the Exalted March and we believe in the wiping out of dangers that we do not understand._

_In Justinia's eyes, I see no fear. I see nothing but hope for the future, and a faith that once touched me, brought me out from the wasteland, and stood ready to craft me into a woman I did not become. A woman that I did not become because I swore an oath to a woman who stole my faith, superseded it with her own, and used my sword with her benefit. I have done wrong and been wronged, and in Justinia's eyes and touch I see my chance to right all the wrongs I have done._

_"Will you be my Right Hand, Cassandra?" Justinia asks, and I am humbled and brought low as I nod my head, unable to speak even a single word._

_"Then swear unto me this vow." Justinia orders, and she lifts the sword from the marble floor._

_On my knees, I grasp it, and she rests her right hand over my right hand in the time honored tradition...but it is simply tradition. This will be unlike any vow I have ever before sworn, a deviation from tradition._

_"You will live in love." Justinia says, and I cling to her every word. "You will serve in love. You will fight to protect. You will be slow to anger, but swift to justice. Always you will remember the mercy given you, and you will grant it unto others. You will be rooted in love, driven by hope, and you will never forget your fallibility, but be ever guided by your faith."_

_I feel a fire in my spirit as I part my lips and speak her words. "I swear to live in love." I made my new vow. "I will serve in love. I will fight to protect. I will be slow to anger, but swift to justice. Always I will remember the mercy given me, and I will grant it unto others. I will be rooted in love, driven by hope, and I will never forget my fallibility, but be ever guided by my faith."_

_Justinia nods and she looks pleased. "Rise, Cassandra Pentaghast." She commands, removing her hands from the sword, leaving me to carry it. "Rise as my Right Hand."_

* * *

     I emerged from the memory as I heard the sound of footsteps moving down the stairs. I looked up to see ocean blue eyes that had already been written into history. Behind Leliana was her lover, and my friend, the physician Kathyra. I thought of the history Justinia gave me, the interconnected lines of fates and destinies. Once, to both of them, I had been the antagonist. I had threatened Leliana once and been beaten into unconsciousness by Salem Cousland. I nearly let Kathyra and another young templar die because of the vow I had sworn to Beatrix, my fixed devotion to her and my blind oath. 

      _This is not who I am any longer,_ I thought,  _but neither of them knows this. I must prove it, both to them and to myself._

 

 


	25. A Promise and a Threat

**The Lowtown Clinic  
** **Leliana**

     Cassandra looked so very different than the last time I saw her. It was not simply that years had passed, or that she cut short her raven waterfall of hair. Her eyes held a different light than they had the last time I looked into them for any amount of time. The cinnamon and amber seemed softened and mellowed, becoming a quiet flame instead of the hard crystals of before. Even so, I had not yet spoken a single word to her. While Cassandra had never been given to deception, all things were subject to change, and I did not know if I could trust her with the words I spoke. 

      _I suppose that, with the time we are meant to spend together, I shall soon find out._

     "Hello, Cassandra." I berated myself internally, for even the simple greeting sounded strained and contrived. 

     "Leliana." She, too, sounded stiff and formal and I turned to Kathyra with a glance of desperation. 

     My physician did  _nothing_ to help the situation, her lips widened in a smile and her eyes veritably  _twinkled_ with deviousness and mischief. I frowned, realizing that the awkward tension rising between Cassandra and I was  _entertaining_ her. The Right Hand moved into my peripheral vision, and I saw the harsh glower in her eyes directed towards Kathyra. 

     "What makes you believe this is amusing?" Cassandra asked, a veritable thunderstorm smoldering behind her gaze. 

     "Due to the fact that it  _is_ amusing." Kathyra chuckled. "It appears that if the two of you aren't shouting at each other or arguing over something, you've no manner of idea how to speak."

     Cassandra made a disgusted noise and stalked towards the door. "I will wait for you here, Leliana. I will not tolerate being mocked for no purpose."

     "It has a purpose." Kathyra showed her cheeky side, a humor bright and free that I adored, even though it was so very different from Salem's levity, sarcasm, and dark humor. "My lover is soon to leave, and I am worried for her, and for you. If mocking you lightens the burden of my anxieties, then is it not well worth it, for one moment, to be ridiculed? Especially if it is not in earnest?"

     "Fine." Cassandra groused, leaning against a wall. 

     I could not resist a low chuckle at that and turned a thankful smile to Kathyra. She reached out and took my satchel from me, walking to our stores an packing a supply of dried meats, fruits, and traveler's bread, which had no yeast and therefore kept longer. I watched her carefully, noticing the slight tremor of her hands as she packed my satchel, including, not just food, but bandaging, pain relievers, sleeping drafts, antiseptics...it worried me. 

     Ignoring Cassandra, I drew closer to my lover and rested my hand over hers, but she did not cease in her work, continuing to pack for much more than a contingency. 

     "Kathyra, what are you doing?" I whispered. "This is a very simple task, at most two days of travel by sea, and that is if the winds are not in our favor."

     Kathyra took a deep breath and looked up at me, worry shining in her spring-green eyes. "What happened the last time you and Cassandra were on a ship together?" She asked, bringing back a host of memories that were the height of unpleasantness to recollect. 

     "This is not then, Kathyra." I reminded her. "And we all managed to survive that last time. We made it through. We persevered. As we always do."

     "This may not be then, but that will not keep me from my worries or dissuade me from following my intuition." Kathyra claimed, but her words held no anger, only soft, gentle love that whispered to my heart and warmed it. "I pray I am wrong, Leliana, but I will not rest easy until you are back in my arms."

     She finished her packing and I did nothing further to distract her until she completed her task. She pushed the satchel across the table towards me, but I ignored it. I moved around the table and took her in my arms, holding her close, attempting to assuage her worry. We had faced much together, but we were still alive. Where others might have fallen, we pulled through. I tried to impart this to her as I held her close, my beating heart against her beating heart. 

     "I love you." I whispered against her ear, feeling her arms wrap tighter about me. 

     "Come back to me, Leliana." Her words were gentle, but her voice felt like the intensity of the thundering skies. "Just...just come back to me."

     She pulled away from the embrace and her lips were on mine, the heat of her mouth searing like a brand and a promise. I returned her love with ardor, attempting to replace her misgivings with my confidence. I walked with the Maker, and I knew in my spirit that no harm would befall me...at least not harm leading unto death. 

     After a moment, I pulled away from the kiss and felt the fire of Cassandra's eyes on us. I glanced up, shocked to see...longing...in the imperious woman's gaze. The glimpse of emotion shocked me so much that I said nothing, and an instant later a shield fell over the Seeker's cinnamon eyes. Kathyra lifted my satchel and set it about my shoulders, then checked one last time that my bow remained secure in its sheath on my back. 

     I walked towards the door and Cassandra opened it. Before stepping across the threshold, I looked back, one last time, on the woman I loved. 

     "Leliana, Cassandra," Kathyra addressed us, "take care of each other. Be kind to one another. You wield weapons of protection, you are the shields of Thedas. Do not turn your weapons against each other or I swear on my blood and the Maker, I will destroy both of you."

     "I love you too." I replied and Kathyra smiled, an image that I saved in my mind for the trip and task ahead. I did not know how long we would be gone, but it grew more and more difficult to leave Kathyra's side the longer we remained together. 

     The door closed behind us and Cassandra showed me where she had tied the horses. We mounted and the Seeker looked to me. 

     "Do you truly believe Kathyra would follow through..."

     "Yes." I nodded, flashing a smile at Cassandra. "In a heartbeat, yes."


	26. The Mystery of Misspoken Words

**Kirkwall Streets** **  
** **Cassandra**

     I learned long ago that silence could carry with it an authority that knew no disputation. I learned this at the feet of Divine Beatrix, watching her cow saints and sinners alike with a stony countenance, cold eyes, and pursed lips that refused to speak. Under her obsidian gaze, confessions poured forth, a litany of sins in a waterfall of admission. I had taught myself that same expression, and those I confronted caved before me as they had before the previous Divine. 

     However, when I looked at the woman who rode beside me, I knew that no manner of silence would intimidate her or make her speak. She had known true torture: the lash and the brand and the horror of molten metal poured into raw wounds. If she did not wish to speak, no power on earth could force her lips to move. But I did not wish for this to be a time of silence between us. I gave my word to Most Holy, Divine Justinia, that I, as her Right Hand, would do my utmost to reconcile and work alongside the Left Hand. 

     That meant my duty was to break the silence...which meant that Kathyra, the infuriating woman, had been right. I possessed no concept of what to say to Leliana, for we had argued and shouted at each other, but we had never...we had never spoken as equals. That was my doing. My fault, for being a slave to my pride. 

     "I've chartered a ship to take us to Ostwick." I broke the silence, unnerved by the blue eyes that fixed on me; unnerved because, though the woman Is poke to was younger than me, there were centuries behind her gaze. "We should arrive in two day's time, giving us one day before our appointed meeting with the informant."

     Leliana nodded, but her eyes did not move from my own. "This informant has a considerable amount of power, don't you think?"

     "What do you mean by that?" I inquired, asking after the true meaning of her words, for Leliana did not speak but that her words bore layered meaning. 

     "They have demanded the presence of the left and right hands, and we have acquiesced." Leliana explained. "They have set a day and time in which we have no leeway or say. If we do not meet that time, I imagine they have said we will not receive the information?"

     "Yes." I began to follow her line of thought. 

     "You have, of course, considered that this might be a trap?" Leliana asked. I expected to see disdain in her crystalline eyes, or hear it in her voice, but it was not present. 

     "I have." I nodded. "But I have learned that a meeting with so many strictures and demands is either a trap, or a meeting that will result in truly important information."

     "Therefore we are caving to the demands?" She mused. "Intriguing."

     The lilt in her voice over the last word strummed against my nerves in a decidedly unpleasant manner. I somehow felt that she condescended to and patronized me, while at the same time I felt a burning curiosity to know what she found so intriguing. 

     "Oh?" The single syllable left my lips and, not so long ago, I would have cursed at the vulnerability that lay within my response. Now, however, I chose to allow it. 

     "The Cassandra Pentaghast I know would never have acceded to traveling to a place of another's choosing with only one other for company and protection. She would not have permitted a stranger to command her in any fashion. And she most certainly would not have made the journey with a woman she once backhanded across the face and called a heretic."

     As schooled as I was in controlling my emotions, I could not stop the flush of shame that bloomed across my cheeks. I reminded myself that it mattered nothing to others that  _I_ had seen the mistakes made in the past. It would have been proven to them, and that would not be easy...for I had been a fool through much of my life. A well-intentioned fool, but a fool nonetheless. 

     "The Cassandra Pentaghast you knew is, I pray, dead and buried." I spoke low as we rode through the streets of Kirkwall towards the harbor. "I allowed myself to be molded into what I thought was the Maker's image...without realizing that it was a mortal woman who molded me."

     Leliana's brows rose, but other than that, she offered no other physical response. "We all suffer such painful realizations at some juncture in our lives, if the Maker is kind." She murmured kinder words than I thought she would offer. 

     I shook my head. "If the Maker is kind, then we shall know pain?" I asked. "There are many in Thedas who would disagree with you, Leliana."

     "There are many in Thedas who are welcome to do so." Leliana's lips quirked upwards in the smallest, saddest smile I had ever witnessed. "It will not make my words any less the truth."

     I frowned, wondering how the ironclad truth in her statement could make her anything less than arrogant. Arrogant as she had accused me of being on more than one occasion. However, nothing about Leliana communicated arrogance...she simply possessed true confidence--a confidence that presented itself as quiet, competent strength. I knew that I was strong. I knew that others feared my strength, prowess, and capability. But something in Leliana's voice, something in the way she held herself, communicated a much different kind of strength than that which I possessed. 

     Unable to find anything else with which to reply, I conceded with three words. "As you say."

     Leliana reined in her horse, hard and sharp. Even in the saddle she remained still, a fierce stillness that terrified me. I stopped and her blue eyes shredded through my own, seeming to pierce through me to my very core. Her red hair waved behind her in the wind like a blood-drenched banner, and her skin appeared white as snow. I shivered in the silence that she held; that she reigned over. 

     "Do not  _ever_ ," her voice was a low hiss, a serpent's warning before its fatal bite, "say those three words to me again. Do we have an agreement?"

     I felt fire kindle in my heart, a fire that Leliana alone could incite, a combative spirit that I did not often possess with those who were my compatriots, those who served the Maker and the Divine as I did. This woman, however, this prophet, this bard, this...this  _creature_ could incite that battle-born spirit and drive me near to insanity. 

     "Not without a reason." I spoke, sharpening my words as she sharpened hers, phantom weapons that we flung through the air, a sparring match invisible to the naked eye. 

     "I do not owe you that reason." She growled, nudging her horse in the sides and moving past me at a canter through the streets of Lowtown. 

     Cursing under my breath, I spurred my own mount forward, shaking my head. I'd promised Justinia that this time would be different, that I would control my anger, that I would swallow my pride and show Leliana that I had changed. I, in this moment, failed the first test. I could have agreed, acted further in ways that might earn her trust,  _then_ gain her answer. Instead, I demanded what I had no right to know. 

      _Forgive me, Maker. Forgive me, Most Holy. I swear I will continue to try to prove, with actions perhaps, instead of words, that I am a woman changed. I will **not** fail in this mission. Maker...help me. _


	27. An Unavoidable Coincidence

**Kirkwall Harbor** **  
** **Salem**

     The salt air stung my nose, carrying with it the scent of burned lyrium and congealed blood, the stench that defined Kirkwall. Anyone with any sort of instinct could tell that ill winds blew in this city, that the things which flourished here in the name of good soon perished, or became tainted, in order to remain existent. I'd left this city after my wounds had healed and signed on with a freelance merchant vessel. 

     I enjoyed the freedom, the anonymity that came with being at sea. I did not even mind being the sole woman on the crew, in the company of men. It was easier to be surrounded by those whom I would never desire. Informing them that I had no such desires had been more difficult, but after a few broken noses, blackened eyes, and cracked ribs, I no longer needed to worry. I had earned the crew's respect by working harder and longer than any of them. 

     I found liberty in the physical labor, raising the sails, hauling up the anchor, running across the decks like a madwoman when the ship was tossed by one of the freak storms that dogged the Waking Sea. Aboard the ship, I could set my mind free. Somehow, watching the sunrise, when surrounded by nothing but peaceful waves, truly made the day new. Made me new. 

      _It will not last forever,_ I thought, wiping sweat from my brow and raking my hand through the hair I now kept short.  _As all good things in my life, it will end. But that is all right. I have learned very well how to live a century in a single moment. I have become adept at stealing time._

     "Look lively!" The first mate walked across the deck, bellowing orders for the taciturn captain. 

      _The captain looked at me and pointed to the mask. His first mate asked why I wore it and I gave him the half-truth; that I wear it to conceal horrendous scarring from a brawl. The captain stood, wrapped his hand around my arm, felt the muscle there, and nodded. I joined the crew that same day._

     The first mate came to stand beside me and looked down to the docks, where two horses moved their way through the crowd of merchants, slaves, and the men and women who made up the city. He glanced at me but did not meet my eyes. Few of the crew did, save for the cabin boy, an orphaned lad of only twelve years. He Could look at me...he had not lived long enough or remembered enough of his young years to enter his own hell when he met my gaze. 

     "You know anything about horses?" The first mate asked, and I nodded an affirmative, still choosing to speak as little as possible. 

      _Words have always brought pain, and there is enough of that in this world for me. Why bring more hell upon myself? Why suffer further when I am forced to meet the mirror?_

     "Good." He nodded. "We've been chartered, and we're taking two horses with us. I've asked the whole damn crew and they're sailors, not farriers. Most times the captain'd make the passengers care for their own animals, but we've been paid good coin to make this trip swift and without issue for them as hired us."

     I nodded again, because I could not reply to him with my voice, even if I wanted to. In spite of the distance, I recognized the woman astride the bay gelding, the natural ease and grace with which she carried herself. Grace...a trait she embodied, body and soul, fluid and savage like a predator. She lifted her hand and pulled back her hood as she urged her horse up the gangplank and the entirety of the crew stood still as she bared her fiery hair to the light of the sun. 

     "Eyes on your work, you blighted scallywags!" The first mate's voice boomed. "That bloody anchor won't lift itself, and if you don't get your wits about you it'll be extended shifts, half-rations, and three lashes!"

     The threats moved everyone's eyes away but mine. I turned to my work but remained riveted to the woman who dismounted her horse. As I knew she would, she stroked its mane with one hand and its nose with the other, whispering in its ear. The stench of Kirkwall faded as the wind wrapped me in Leliana's scent. My knees trembled and threatened to buckle as I felt the painful pulse-pang of desire rip through me like the darkspawn blade that ripped my heart. The sweet, gentle perfume of Andraste's Grace flooded through me and my skin came alive as my scars  _sang_. 

     I knelt behind a crate so that I could watch with a lesser chance of being discovered. She could not see me. She could not know that I was here but dear  _Maker_ even my lips  _ached_ to touch and devour what once was mine. My hands trembled, conveying my weakness and my want as my eyes drank her in, painting a picture with which to haunt me for eternity. 

     Even on my knees, I slumped, crossing my arms over my chest, protecting the heart that threatened to break my ribs and scream across the distance that parted us, to wrap itself in its other half. My soul burned with flame and fury and my eyes burned as well, layering my cheeks with tears. The vibrations of the wood beneath me, the echoes of footsteps, became a primal, desperate beating drum and I wanted to break. 

      _I. Am. **Human!**_ I screamed inside my head as every wound to my soul and psyche ripped open and bled.  _I am **mortal**! I  **want** I  **need** I  **desire**! It isn't worth it! This manner of pain, _ I opened my eyes and stared down at the ring, my marriage vow now stamped permanently in my skin, unable to be removed. I endured the horror of looking at it, while surrounded by Leliana's scent...the Maker and faith be damned. No mortal could bear this. No human could endure it.  _This manner of pain isn't worth it. I am done, Flemeth. Finished. You win._

     I gathered my courage. I had to stand. I had to stand and look at her, had to meet her gaze and hold her and break the vow I had made to myself. I'd worn a mask since being dragged out of eternity. I would wear it no longer. I did not care whose reality I mangled or whose faith I shattered. Love could repair faith...Leliana's love granted me faith and time again when all I wished to do was surrender. 

     "Leliana," I heard a voice that I remembered, a voice that accompanied a haughty sneer, the voice that stole my wife from my side and forced us both into separate hells. "Leliana, I entreat your forgiveness."

     "Oh?" My lips trembled at the lilt of Leliana's voice, the elegant timbre, the perfect pitch, the insouciant indifference. 

     "I spoke amiss and I have wrong you in some way that I do not know." Cassandra Pentaghast replied and, for a single moment of perfect shock, my heart refused to beat. "You spoke true when you said that you did not owe me a reason. We...we should work together, as Most Holy desires, and the blame for this disagreement rests on my shoulders. However, I ask you to indulge me so that I do not err in this manner again...so that there is less animosity between us."

     I heard my once-lover sigh and wanted nothing more than to love her again, hold her again. Surely she would understand. Surely she would forgive me, as she had forgiven me so many times in the past. 

     "You spoke to me with Salem's words." Leliana revealed, and my heart thrummed in my chest. "It was in those same three words that she gave me the entirety of herself and her soul and her heart. To hear them from another who uses them as you did, to say something because you felt you  _must_ continue speaking, destroys me. Because those words...those words were everything to me."

     "I...I understand." Shock spindled through me again at the somber,  _earnest_ tone of a voice I had known ever to be harsh and arrogant. "I shall not speak so again." The Divine's Right Hand promised. "I can see the pain in your heart, Leliana, and I know there is no set time for one who is bereaved to hold their sorrow. Do you find yourself hurting over her loss still?"

     My heart clawed its way into my throat, my chest dared not rise, and my lungs panged. My body trembled with such ferocity I no longer knew if I had the strength to stand. I remained on my knees and lowered my head, baring my neck to the sun and wishing it were the executioner's axe. 

     "There...there is pain, yes." Leliana answered and I begged the Maker for one reprieve, one chance, one declaration from her supple, prophet's lips. One mercy. One mercy. "But it grows less. If I am to be Most Holy's left hand, then I must forget my past wishes and refuse to entertain thoughts of potential fates. If your concern is that my pain and my loss will affect my work and devotion, then let me put your heart at rest. I set aside my marriage ring, and swore a new vow before Justinia. I believe a great deal in love, Cassandra, but love cannot bring back the dead. Because of that...I have set Salem aside in my heart."

     The words struck me like a hammer blow to the back of my skull and even though I felt I should die of heartbreak, in a perverse turn of events I found myself grateful. Grateful that she had allowed her heart to heal. That mattered. That she felt whole enough to sequester her thoughts of me and recall them only when she chose...that meant everything to me. However, I did not know how long I could endure the gaping, bleeding lacerations in my own heart. i could not set Leliana aside, for she  _burned_ in me. 

     My tears turned bitterer than the saltwater of the Waking Sea. I felt as though I stood outside myself and saw the first mate escort Leliana and Cassandra below deck, to their quarters. I meditated on the gangplank, contemplating running for it and abandoning the ship. I would not attempt to rekindle a love that she had already set aside. I would not hurt her, not again, not in the same manner that I once did, during the Blight. 

     I got to my feet and the ship lurched as the anchor thudded on the deck, wind caught the sails, and the ship left Kirkwall for Ostwick. I stared at the diminishing land, trapped...trapped on a ship with my last love, the woman I wanted, but who no longer wanted me. Breaking her faith meant less to me now than it had just moments before. My desire superseded that level of altruism. My humanity bade me  _act_ , faith and faithfulness be damned. 

     But I...but I...I did not...I could not...I did not have the strength...

     ...to break her heart. 

      _Maker, take away my heart. Please. It hurts...it hurts too much to feel, to hope, to wonder. It hurts too much to love her._


	28. Beginning a Conversation

**The Ship to Ostwick**   
**Leliana**

     Standing before the sea was one thing, but it felt another thing entirely to be aboard a ship, cradled by the water. It instilled a peace in my soul that had been missing for quite some time. A peace that I was reminded of when I spoke to Cassandra of Salem. I stood on the prow of the ship, looking towards our destination, remembering another voyage across the Waking Sea to Val Royeaux, a voyage also spent in the company of the Right Hand. 

      _I wonder what might have happened if Beatrix had not summoned me. I wonder what might have happened if the time I spent with the Seekers in Val Royeaux had instead been spent with Salem. I wonder where I might stand now if her tainted blood had not caused her death._

     Once, even whispering Salem's name in my thoughts caused my heart to race and my cheeks to flush; my gut to twist with grief. Now, time's hand dimmed the pain of those wounds. I spoke true to Cassandra. I had set Salem aside in my heart, in a place specific to her, where also dwelt honesty, loyalty, peace,and forgiveness. Those were her best traits, traits that she magnified in me. I loved her and I kept that love cherished and safe. But it no longer ruled my heart. It no longer made me ache in the dark of night when I woke from a dream both sweet and sorrowful. I had survived losing part of my heart. 

     "I know that look." I turned towards the sound of the voice that lilted with its own cadence, that belonged to no country, but to all of them. "I have seen it upon my own countenance more than once."

     I sighed and decided to listen and speak with her. She had asked for my forgiveness, something that the woman I knew before would never have done. It shocked me to my core when she did not choke on the words she gave me. 

     "Tell me, what is it that you recognize?"

     "Loss." Cassandra intoned. "Not the loss of something simple, but the loss of something that had a place in your heart, a planted banner, a land in your soul that belonged truly to them. There is a place in your heart that is missing, once fertile soil, now a barren wasteland. The look that scars your features comes in the moments where we stand on the edge of that desert and remember the lush and verdant land that once was."

     "Well said." I replied, pleased by the frankness and honesty stamped on Cassandra's severe, stark, and beautiful features. "Do you ever walk through that desert, Cassandra? In hopes, perhaps, to find some remnant that still lives, some beauty that might still exist...that might remain?"

     "Every moment that I live." She breathed. "In that desert lies my brother, Antony. I watched him cut down before my very eyes. The speed of my sword, the ferocity of my dedication...those are parts of me that persist in honor of him. They are things that he taught me, when he could have flung away his little sister after our parents died and our uncle took us in." An expression of delicate wistfulness, longing, and, yes, loss, crossed Cassandra's features. "But he did not. He doted on me, taught me all that he had learned, and I watched him slay dragons and return victorious. I wanted to be like him in every way, for I idolized him and loved him."

     The Right Hand paused in her tale and I noticed the way in which she held her self. Straight, tall, squaring her broad shoulders, her legs apart in a battle-ready stance. But her arms were crossed, not low, beneath her breasts, which would indicate irritation or resistance, but over her ample bosom, hands tucked beneath the pits of her arms...protecting her heart. 

     "I thought he was invincible." Her voice dropped as pain filled her whiskey eyes. "But no. He was as mortal and as human and as fallible as the rest of us. As fallible as I am."

      _The great Cassandra Pentaghast admits her fallibility?_ I thought, staring at the woman, knowing that she could see the incredulity stamped on my features. 

     "There is something you wish to say to me." I spoke the words before I knew in full what I said, speaking with an instinct that I'd learned to trust. "And it has nothing to do with loss or the fact that you are attempting to build a bridge between us."

     Cassandra breathed deep and a disgusted noise chuffed out of her as she exhaled. "You are a singularly infuriating creature, Leliana Cousland."

     I smiled at her. "That will never cease to be the truth." I allowed. "But it makes me no less correct. You have something to tell me, something to confide, and I would hear it, Cassandra. Believe what you may, but I do desire to work alongside you without animosity as much as you do. Most Holy asked this of me as surely as she asked it of you, and I owe Justinia...I owe her the life that I now lead."

     Cassandra nodded and came to stand beside me, looking out towards the horizon. Her hands reached out and grasped the railing and I saw the myriad, fine scars that decorated her dusky flesh. They were a warrior's hands through and through, and I wondered if Cassandra were capable of possessing a strength akin to Salem's. A strength so devastating and gentle that mountains would fall before a softly spoken word. 

     "I, too, owe her a life." Cassandra's voice lowered and took on a tone that made the woman seem...almost innocent, almost a young woman again, blinded by naivete. "I owe her the life of an angry, abusive woman who believed in her righteousness above all else...the life of a woman who believed that a mortal being claiming to speak for the Maker...might be completely honest."

     I heard the sorrow in Cassandra's voice; felt the energy of her aura, and realized that the woman who spoke to me now was, in truth, not the same woman who had entered my home and taken me away from my wife. She was not the woman who had struck me and called me a heretic, not the woman who despised mages and would rather end their life than suffer them in this world. 

     Cassandra had wronged me, yes, and she wronged those that I called friends. She nearly allowed Kathyra and Rylie to die in a ship not unlike this one. She had drawn her sword against Salem and pressed the blade against my wife's throat. She had been drenched in pride and anger. She had forgotten her humanity. 

     "Tell me." I offered, honoring my promise to Justinia to  _try_ to work in tandem with and alongside Cassandra. "I would know more of the woman standing before me, for she is not the woman I once knew."

     Cassandra turned to face me and the wind ruffled her obsidian hair. And then, for a brief moment of suspended time, light entered the amber eyes and the Right Hand's lips quirked up in a flashing smile. In that moment, fleeting as it was, I saw a woman of immeasurable beauty with a potential for kindness and understanding that outstripped all others. Quick as the expression had come, it departed, and Cassandra turned her eyes once more to the sea. 

     "Two days after I swore my vow, Justinia came to me in my quarters. You know how that unprecedented that is...for the Divine to leave the tower?" Cassandra asked, and I nodded. The warrior heaved a sigh before continuing. "She told me to sit down; that she had something of the utmost importance to tell me. I thought, at the time, in that moment, that she had found another more suited to acting as her right hand. I thought she meant to strip me of that position. But what she told me was far, far worse. In fact, even the thought of it haunts me now...and I do not know if I can reconcile myself to it..."


	29. Betrayed by Devotion

**The Ship to Ostwick** **  
** **Cassandra**

     I let the sound of the water lapping at the sides of the boat soothe me, and gazed into the distance. I knew that if I met those piercing ocean blue eyes I would lose my ability to speak. For it seemed so...so very lacking when I juxtaposed the story I would tell against Leliana's history. Her history of a love so powerful that it destroyed a Blight and brought the Maker out of silence. 

     "I loved a man once." I spoke, unable to look back to see her reaction. "I am certain that it will shock you to know that he was a mage." I paused, gathering the composure that still splintered when I spoke of him. "Regalyan D'Marcall. Or Galyan, as I called him. Together, we thwarted the coup against Divine Beatrix. He broke through the walls of grief I had built around my heart after losing Antony. And I could have loved him well. I would have loved him. I...I wanted to love him."

     My voice trailed off and the silence crescendoed around us until I almost could not bear it. I began to turn away when a small hand came to rest on my shoulder. I trembled beneath the power in Leliana's touch. 

     "What happened, Cassandra?" She asked, her voice the gentlest whisper I'd ever heard. Gentle enough to move mountains. 

* * *

      _"Cassandra, do loosen your shoulders and sit down." Justinia orders, and though I do not know if I can comply, I attempt to do so, sitting down on the edge of my cot as Justinia takes the single chair in my spartan quarters, her kind blue eyes already ripping me to pieces._

_"Might I be so presumptuous as to ask why you have come, Most Holy?" I ask, needing to break the silence suspended over us._

_"Of course you may, my child." Justinia replies. "I heard that several apostates were brought back to the Circle from whence they fled. They were inhabitants of the White Spire, and this their first offense. You were summoned to adjudicate, as the Knight-Commander was away, and you ordered their execution. I should like to know why."_

_I frown, unsure why she is questioning me. Under Beatrix, I had adjudicated many apostate trials, some ending in the shaving and branding, some ending with the Rite of Tranquility, and others ending in death. This time where had been wounds on the bodies of the mages who fled from the Circle. I could but assume that they had used blood magic when the templars came for them._

_"They bore the wounds of the maleficar, Most Holy." I answer, confident in my words. "Such a thing cannot be overlooked. They were too dangerous to reintegrate into the mage population."_

_Justinia nods and I feel relief, but I believe the questioning to be over. I rise from my seat and take a step when Justinia stands, the sheer power of her presence sending me back into my seat as she approaches me. Her blue eyes look as though they have caught fire and I see the carefully controlled wrath in her very soul._

_"Is that so?" She asks, calm and quiescent, a still pond. "They bore the wounds of the maleficar?"_

_"Yes, Most Holy." I reply. "I saw the blood on their clothing and the gashes on their bodies."_

_"I believe you." Justinia says, vindicating me. "I believe that when you looked at them, you saw the wounds of a maleficar. But that, Cassandra, is what you wished to see."_

_I want to feel affronted, insulted, but I cannot, not before Divine Justinia. "I beg you tell me your meaning."_

_"I had my personal physician examine the bodies of the mages you ordered killed." Justinia says, and I chafe that she questions my judgement, my decision, my **word of honor**. "His report disturbed me. Those 'wounds of the maleficar' are you call them, were in fact gashes and lacerations made by the teeth of the hounds the templars used to aid in tracking and subduing them. Not a single cut was made on their bodies by their own hands. They did not turn to blood magic, Cassandra. You took the lives..."_

_"Of apostate runaways!" I exclaim, rising from my seat once more, this time in indignation. I had done nothing wrong; had not erred in my judgment, and would not be spoken to with the bladed voice issuing from Justinia's lips. "Do you truly think that I have done wrong!?"_

_"Oh, yes." Justinia replies, but there is no anger in her words, simply the truth of them, and that burns me deeper than any other heat. It leaves both a welt, a wound, and a scar. "You saw what you wished to see,  because your mind has been darkened by my predecessor. I have asked and received answers. You have not spoken a kind word to a mage in years. You have not treated them as humans, as the Chant of Light orders. You despise mages, Cassandra."_

_"I do." I hiss, admitting my prejudice, for it is one in which I feel no shame. "They cannot be trusted. They lie and they deceive and they attempt to earn confidence only to betray it later. No good can come of showing mercy to a mage. Maker strike me down if ever I let a mage go free who has rebelled against the Chant of Light, who has fled the Circle in the belief that they deserve a life of freedom when they are so obviously a danger that needs to be contained."_

_"I see." Justinia quirks a single, snowy eyebrow upward. "I trust you as my Right Hand, Cassandra. But this is not in keeping with the Maker's wish for this world. Why do you treat mages as though they are less than human?"_

_"because they are prey to so much greater a temptation." I insist. "They are so weak that they must be guided, and if they fail to follow their guides, then they are a menace and a danger."_

_"Such vehement words from a woman who once lay with a mage." Justinia's eyes pierce mine and I flinch, frozen in place by the heat and power of her gaze alone. "Yes, my child." She whispers. "I know. Tell me what happened with him that broke not only your heart, but your mind. He stole your compassion, Cassandra, and your clear vision. How?"_

_My lips purse. I do not wish to confess this, do not wish to speak of this, do not want to relive the memory of that terrible day. That terrible day when my walls fully collapsed. It had been two years, two years of building bridges, supervised visits with Galyan in the White Spire that led to us being able to walk outside together, hand in hand; that allowed us freedom to be together in body and soul. We were to meet that day, and I had been near to bursting with the joy of anticipation. My heart had been freed from its grief and its bitterness and I planned to confide that to him...I wanted so very much to love him without reserve...to love him in the way that he loved me._

_"I was to meet Galyan outside the Spire that day." I swallow the lump in my throat, struggling to meet Justinia's gaze. "When Beatrix summoned me. Her chambers were empty and she..." my voice cracks, even over the memory, "...she bade me sit down and told me...she told me that Galyan had been captured while attempting to flee the Circle with his...his mage lover." My muscles shake and shudder and I clench my hands into fists, struggling to regain my composure. "The templars surrounded him and the man I loved turned to blood magic and became an abomination. The templars struck him down."_

_There are tears in my eyes and I despise them. I despise myself for loving a man who could give in that quickly. We had laughed and spoken with each other, talked late from the night into the morning of the ways in which we would change the world for the better. We promised each other when we were young, full of vim and vigor, that we would always have love and trust between us._

_"And this embittered you against all mages?" Justinia asks. "The actions of one man defined your actions against all other mages for these years, culminating in the deaths of three people who simply desire that the world they live in be different for them. Have you yourself never wished that?"_

_"I have." I reply, wondering where Justinia is leading me._

_"And you were able to walk from the life you did not wish to live and change it, were you not?" Justinia's eyes harden and, in my spirit, the weight of guilt begins to bear down on me._

_"I was."_

_"And this, all because you were a woman without magic. Because the world accepts you as you are, for who you are. Yet you stood and saw them wounded and bleeding, cut to pieces by the war hounds that brought them down, because the templars used blood forcibly drawn from them to track them like **animals**." There is righteous anger in Most Holy's voice, and I feel it piercing through me like an earthquake, shaking apart all that I had built within myself. _

_"Do you wish to punish me, Most Holy?" I whisper, wondering if the blood that I ordered shed will be paid for with my own blood, and my dismissal from her service. Perhaps I deserve it, for I can see where Justinia stands, but I still feel as though I have done no wrong._

_"No, Cassandra." Her smile is so kind. "I wish to ask your forgiveness."_

_My confusion grows as she extends to me a roll of parchment. I take it from her and begin to read the words. Blood drains from my face and my hands turn frigid as I read the single sentence and signature on the parchment._

* * *

**_Knight Commander Raver,_ **

**_I am ordering the immediate transfer of the mage Regalyan D'Marcall from the White Spire to the Circle in Treviso, the Antivan city near the Rivaini border._ **

**_Beatrix III, Divine of Orlais_ ** __

* * *

      _I look up at Justinia, horror stamped upon my face as I feel a terrible weight descend on my shoulders. The weight of lives for whom I am now responsible, the weight of innocents whom I have...I have ordered slaughtered. I believed the woman who called herself "Most Holy"...all because I believed her and did not recognize her cruel manipulations or understand the woman that she twisted me into becoming...the woman who could not see that the bites of a dog were **not** self-inflicted wounds of a maleficar. _

_"He wrote to you, Cassandra." Justinia speaks and I crumple to my knees, a woman lost, a woman broken. "He wrote to you every month for a year, and Beatrix had all of his letters intercepted. She could not allow you to love him, for she believed and decided that you belonged to her. In this moment, as when you swore to me your vow, you see that you wear the stain of another's sins upon your hands and soul. This is not as it should be, but it is written now into history and cannot be changed."_

_Her words fall on me like blistering rain that peels my skin and leaves me naked, red, and raw out into the cold. I drop the parchment to the floor and huddle into myself, shivering and nauseated by the memories of all the sins I have committed because I allowed my love to turn to bitterness and change me and...and that bitterness that I absorbed into my riven soul made me a monster. A monster filled with hate. Who blindly executed._

_"I thought..." The words shiver out of my mouth, cold and tremulous and terrified, "...I thought that if...that if a man so good and strong as Galyan had...had become an abomination..." my words cracked over the lie, "...that no mate...no mage could ever be...worth saving."_

_Justinia kneels before me and her eyes are kind and they are soft and they are wet with tears. She is standing with me as my equal, sharing in my grief and I feel in her a mother's spirit. A guide who will be unafraid to give me difficult truths...but they **will** be  **truths**._

_**How many more lies did Beatrix tell me that I drank from her lips like wine? How many more lives have I destroyed because I believed? Oh Maker...Maker what have I done?**_

_"You have a long and difficult road before you, Cassandra Pentaghast." Justinia says and I nod my head, for the first time unashamed that I shed tears before another. "Beatrix deceived you for her own ends and she, I am certain, is paying for her sins in a manner so terrible we cannot conceive. But you must realize that take responsibility for the actions you took when you believed her lie. Take the bitterness that is within you now and shape it into the love that I know it was in the beginning. Believe in the good of the heart of another once more, Cassandra. Do not let Beatrix's lie to continue to bind you, hold you, and twist you into something that you are not."_

_"But..." I protest. I want to abdicate my position, my title, for I do not deserve it. Not if I am so very weak that Beatrix deceived me with such ease._

_"No, Cassandra." Justinia keeps me from speaking and in her eyes is a fearsome strength and devastating love...an expression I had witnessed only once before, belonging to a Grey Warden who struck me down in the height of my idiocy and insouciance. Justinia directs that **look** , that  **love** , at  **me** , and I am so very unworthy. "You are still destined for great things. Do not let anger at yourself become bitterness. Do not repeat the sin of your past. Accept your actions this day, but do not repeat them. You have been given time, and the truth, dear girl. Use it well."_

* * *

     When I emerged from the retelling, I looked at last to Leliana, shocked when I saw tears in her eyes. After all that I had done to her, she had the kindness and purity of heart to weep for me, and to cry for what I had endured. Her hand reached out and in her body and in her hands I could see nothing but comfort and caring offered. Many had made this gesture to me, especially Kathyra, who tried...who tried so hard to steer me in gentler ways. I rebuffed it each time, disdaining it, believing that I did not need it...that those who offered camaraderie and touch would betray me as quickly as Galyan had...but he never betrayed me. It was all a lie. 

     I reached out and took Leliana's hand, feeling its warmth and strength as she squeezed it in deep commiseration, then released it, asking me for nothing and offering all that she possessed. I could still feel the warmth of her skin; it carried lethality and grace, traits that belonged to her and her warden both. 

     "Did you go to Galyan?" Leliana asked. "With this knowledge, did you go to him?"

     "I did." I replied, turning back towards the sea, to the peace I could feel from it. "But that is a story for another time."

     "A time with wine and firelight?" The former bard asked, and I smiled, nodding my head. 

     "Yes." I allowed. "Wine and firelight. I shall take you up on that offer."

 

 

 


	30. A Remembrance of History

**The Boar and Dove Tavern - Ostwick** **  
** **Leliana**

     I sighed as I stared down, ruing the crimson liquid resting in the bottom of the cup. I had not the slightest idea what it might be, but it was certainly  _not_ what I desired, or what the barkeeper described. At least the stew we were served both appeared and smelled edible. I should not have complained, however. Times were hard across all of Thedas. 

     "I've yet to see your nose  _not_ in a persistent state of wrinklement when it comes to what you've been served." Cassandra noted, her voice dark and smoky, but her manner seemed light, judging by the quirking of her lips that, for the severe woman, was the most beaming of smiles. 

     I lifted the cup that held the source of my current consternation. "My kingdom for a decent glass of wind." I claimed, and Cassandra quirked her lips again as she sat down. 

     "What kingdom, pray tell?" She asked. "That statement is more befitting of me, as you have been so kind to remind me every moment that you can."

     "So are you still nettled about that?" I quipped, hiding my smile with the cup of vinegar...for it most certainly was  _not_ wine. 

     "I am the Right Hand of the Divine." Cassandra's eyes sparked. "I find it demeaning to be summoned from the opposite end of the ship by you sing-songing the word ' _princess_ '." 

     "It is accurate, no?" I asked, unable to keep from teasing her, as I had been for the entirety of the two day voyage, once serious conversation between us ceased and the confused, awkward silence began again. "With the state of Nevarran politics, the myriad coups and lightning quick successions, I fear you may soon be summoned to take your throne..." I paused, letting her think I was finished, "...princess."

     Somehow, even with a mouthful of stew, Cassandra managed to make a disgusted noise. She swallowed and pointed her spoon at me as though it were a dagger. 

     "Between the two of us, it is  _you_ who have actually held a title and served as liege lord over a territory." She groused, falling back on the truth and its semantics as she always did...but I did not believe the woman knew how to tease. 

      _It is either that she possesses no humor that she will not countenance acting and speaking in such a way in the presence of those who **might** have an inkling of who she is. I can see that she has changed from the Cassandra that I knew in the time of Divine Beatrix, but I am uncertain that she knows quite who she is as of yet. _

     "Incorrect." I took a sip of vinegar and grimaced. "The nearest I came to  _honest_ political power was the forging of Salem's signature." I lifted my spoon to my lips, blowing on the stew to cool it before catching a glimpse of the snide incredulity stamped on Cassandra's features. "You poor woman," I shook my head, "you actually believe I'm leading you on."

     Cassandra's brows lifted as she processed my words with a keen and analytical mind that I was beginning to understand. Her lips parted, then closed; parted, then closed, then parted. 

     "You are...you are serious?" She asked. 

     I nodded. "Towards..." a wave of grief took me unaware as they sometimes did, even years removed from Salem's loss, "...towards the end of her life, Salem wanted to be among her people. To remember what it was to live...she placed people above her paperwork, and I found it the smallest of favors to affix her signature to a legal document when needed."

     "You..." Cassandra paused, a light entering her eyes that I did not quite comprehend, for she never wore this expression around me, "...you gave her the life she desired...and she spent it with her people?" She asked. "She did not spend it with you? Her lover? the woman who defied the Chantry and the Divine in order to be with her?"

     Cassandra's query did not surprise me, but the manner in which she asked for it did. Both of her hands were on the table, supporting her as she subtly leaned forward, a physical sign of abject interest. Cassandra was not merely biding the time with conversation. She truly wanted the answer to her question...and I found myself wanting to know why she would desire that. It could not be that she harbored any interest in Salem, for my warden had beaten her bloody, insulted her leadership, and despised her. The Cassandra of that time, however, had warranted such treatment and disdain. 

     "Cassandra, to whom do we belong?" I asked, hoping that she would be patient enough to follow the words I spoke, which would lead to the answer she desired. 

     "We are free women, but if you speak of the one to whom our service belongs, then it is Most Holy." Cassandra answered, her strong brows lowering and pressing together. 

     "And before, as a Seeker?" I pressed my inquiry further. 

     "To the Order and the Chant of Light." She replied. 

     "Exactly that." I smiled both from memories and the confused expression swirling in Cassandra's eyes, which, in the low lighting of the tavern, looked like fine whiskey: deep, mellow, lovely, with a bite one did not soon forget. "You belonged to those to whom you served." I continued. "Salem ended a Blight, and, as a Grey Warden...she belonged to all of Thedas."

     "Then your love?" Cassandra asked. "Was it enough for you? Or, after the life you have led and the punishment you have endured, were you content with the dregs of a woman that Thedas drank dry?"

     Cold bitterness lay in her words and I wondered why a woman who attempted to be amicable for the entirety of our journey now showed this face to me. Perhaps she was seeking more from these questions than even I realized; than even her body and her words were conveying. 

     I shook my head and saw once more the spark of interest in Cassandra's whiskey eyes. "Salem belonged to Thedas, Cassandra, but she did not leave me the dregs of herself." I spoke, my tone harder and harsher than I intended, for I still did not countenance any slight against the woman I once loved. "Salem gave herself to all the world, but she reserved the best parts of herself for me."

     A single, obsidian brow raised in an elegant arch. "Oh?"

     "I saw the woman who laughed." I closed my eyes and my mind repainted pictures of the beauty my life once possessed. "I saw the woman who  _danced_. In my arms alone did she weep and, thus, the world that needed her strength never witnessed her tears."

     "Your lover gave you tears?" Cassandra almost sneered, but in her words there was also a question and a wonderment. "How does this bring you joy? How does this make you say that the best parts of herself were reserved for you?"

     "Do not all of us bear some secrets, Cassandra?" I asked. "Do we not all hold some part of ourselves hostage, scared and sacred within us? When love in its truth is present, we free that portion of ourselves, and find our sacred trust returned."

     "And your warden..." Cassandra trailed off and lifted her drink, staring at it so that she did not meet my gaze. 

     "Held sacred her pain." I filled the silence. "Just as I held sacred my fear."

     "Fear and pain." Cassandra scoffed. "What beautiful voids to fill in one another." I could hear the disappointment in her tone, but she had not allowed me to finish. 

     "Yes, I gave her my fear." I smiled. "And she filled me with her strength. She gave me her pain, and I gave her all the love I could muster."

     Cassandra looked up from her glass. "That is love then?" She asked. "To trust one another, not only to take your burdens, but to give you what you need in place of those burdens. Strength for fear. Love for pain. This is love?"

     "That is love, in the manner that I have had love defined for  _me_." I told her. "Every love is like every sunrise; each morn is painted with similar hues, but no dawn is the same."

     In that moment, as I spoke those words, I saw what I believed to be the true heart of Cassandra Pentaghast. Her severe, refined features softened and the lines of age at the corner of her eyes all but disappeared as her gaze went distant. Her lips were tender, flush, tremoring the slightest bit. In the amber of her eyes I saw the plaintive longing of a young woman...I knew that young woman. 

      _I **was** that young woman. I recognize the look on Cassandra's face because I have  **worn** that look. I found it stamped on my face the night after I first met a woman named Marjolaine. All I knew was desire. All I wanted was to be caught in her whirlwind and have her love me. Cassandra is asking these things because Salem drew her blade against the Divine's Right Hand. Salem would have sacrificed everything for love and this woman...Cassandra..._

_...wants nothing but to **love** and to be  **loved**._

     "You speak like a poet, Leliana." Cassandra breathed, soft. 

     "In another life, Cassandra, that is what I was." I murmured, letting the conversation fall away. 

      _In another life I was so many things. There are some of those things I long to be again. Alas,_ I looked up as the tavern door swung open, admitting a gaggle of chattering men and women, all between eighteen and twenty-five years, by my estimate,  _those are things I shall never be._


	31. An Evening with A Bard

**The Boar and Dove  
** **Cassandra**

     I followed Leliana's eyes to the people who entered the tavern, wondering what it was this time that drew the woman's gaze. At several times aboard the ship, her eyes had gone distant and she focused on something that I could not understand until she explained to me what captivated her. During the voyage here, she'd looked most often to the crow's nest, at the tall sailor silhouetted by the sun. Her lips had pursed and her brow furrowed and when I asked what troubled her, she revealed that the sailor stationed there had remained there for the entire voyage, descending not even for meals. 

      _Though I still have no manner of knowing **why** that particular detail was important to her. However, the Right Hand possesses different skills than the Left. Leliana is trained to notice such things, weave disparate details together into a tapestry of sense and facts and information. Those are not my gifts, but they are hers, and they are as necessary as leading a charge against an enemy encampment and defending a life with the sword. _

     "Does something trouble you?" I asked, morphing a stretch into a casual turn so I could look in the direction she did without drawing undo attention to my position and actions.

     Leliana gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. "Look at the ones who just entered." She kicked her chin in the direction of the ten or so men and women who swarmed the bar. "They are obviously regular patrons here, as one can tell by their familiarity with the bartender and the servers. Examine them and tell me what you see."

     Somewhat frustrated by the turn of our conversation, but allowing it to be, I did as Leliana asked me. I watched the crowd, seeing a stoop in their shoulders and a sweat-sheen on their tanned faces that belied manual labor. Their clothes were inexpensive, though sturdy, but obviously lived and worked in. There were several stains on each garment, most notable were the black smears on the sleeves of several of the patrons, the men in particular. Their boots were all leather, well-worn but also cared for, as I could tell by the patches and the re-heeled soles on several of them. 

     "Were I to make a guess, I would say they are dockworkers." I observed. "Their sleeves bear the black streaks of tar used on the ships and they seem tired from heavy lifting. Their hands are callused and their speech is rough. There are perhaps two or three among them educated enough to read." I gathered as I saw two faces looking to the menu behind the bar, then turning and relaying information to the comrades. 

     "All correct." Leliana confirmed. "Except for one."

     "Oh?" I peered into the center of the crowd, wondering if there was someone I had missed in the ever-moving throng. 

     "Not there." Leliana told me. "Leaning against the wall, outside of the heart of the crowd."

     I looked to the wall and saw the woman Leliana spoke of, but witnessed nothing that distinguished her from the rest of the dockworkers, save that she seemed to have slightly more energy and perhaps a stronger back, as her shoulders were not as worn as her fellows. 

     "I see no difference." I said, unashamed of doing so, because I knew this sort of thing was exactly what Justinia had desired. 

     For us to work together in unison. That desired unison required more than knowing the other's name and their skills. It required a knowledge of how we thought, the processes of our minds, and the things that we kept secret in our heart. It required more than either of us were willing to give one another at this point. But, perhaps, that time between us would come. We seemed to at least be working towards it, and to accomplish the goal that Justinia set for us...I would even endure being chidingly called " _princess_ ".

     "Examine the manner in which she holds herself." Leliana advised me, her voice soft, but more than capable of being heard. "Her arms are crossed and she rests all her weight on one leg, with the other propped up. She is hiding something, but she is not worried about what she hides. The material of her clothing is of a much finer weave than the others, and the stains at her sleeves, while black, are the stains of ink, not tar. Her boots are patched, but the patches are unnecessary, as the leather is new. She has simply let the original polish fade, but those boots are not over a year old. During that time," Leliana paused, guiding my vision to the woman's one raised foot, "they have been worn in an activity that, I would hazard, none or few of these dockworkers have ever indulged in. Do you see the creasing in the boot, between the toe and the heel, almost, but not quite, in the center?"

     "Yes." I murmured, looking down at my own boots and noting very similar creases; remembering how they came to be stamped into the leather. "No mere dockworker would own a horse." I replied and Leliana smiled as her eyes caught fire. "Nor would they ride another's horse long enough to gather a creasing in their boots from..."

     "Standing in the saddle and holding one's self in the stirrup while firing a bow, or a great deal of riding in general." Leliana finished my sentence. "Which would maker her..."

     "Either a soldier, a hunter, or a mercenary." I surmised. "Perhaps a blend of all, if her clothing is of more expensive make. It would also explain her ease in a tavern such as this, where the exorbitantly wealthy would not dare set foot, as well as her comfort in associating with dockworkers."

     "Perhaps." Leliana smiled. "Were it not for the one detail that binds her image together."

     "What detail is that?" I inquired, almost eager in this lesson, seeing how one trained in secrecy, subterfuge, and manipulation could discover pertinent information while doing nothing but eating in a tavern.

     "The one I first mentioned." Leliana propped her elbows on the table and laced her fingers together, watching me as I watched the stranger. "That she conceals something, but that she is unworried about its concealment. Soldiers have secrets, yes, but there is only one station that possesses secrets, that hides, and that is absolutely insouciant in that hiding. They do not care if their secrets are discovered because..."

     I followed where she led me and snapped my eyes toward my counterpart. "You are telling me that this woman is a noble?" I inquired. "Only a noble would be uncaring if their secrets were discovered, because they have power to make the repercussions of that secret vanish."

     "Bravo, Cassandra." Leliana grinned, but in her tone and eyes there lay no teasing. "I know that, as a Seeker, you know what it is to find the secrets of the souls and hearts of men." She said. "But I can guarantee that knowing what to look for on the outside of a man will help you expedite your search. no matter what many may say, speed and surety need not be exclusive. I have told you what I see. With that knowledge, tell me now what you discern."

     I looked toward the woman once again, willing her to look up and see me. It took but a moment, and our eyes met, a similar shade, though her were much lighter. They were the shade of champagne, a color that I had seen once before, at the Holy Palace in Val Royeaux on the day when Justinia had been named Divine before all of Thedas. There had been a family there that had made a laborious, long-winded oath to serve the Maker, the Divine, and the Chantry; a family that had stepped forward in their entirety; a mother, father, and four adult children...this woman had not been among them, but the pale skin, raven hair, and champagne eyes did not lie. 

     "She is a Trevelyan." I whispered the name of one of the noble families here in Ostwick, a noble family famous for ignoring its people in favor of service to the Maker...though Beatrix had always been willing to send templars to their estates when ire rose against them, because they truly did give their  _all_ to the Chantry. I glared at Leliana. "But you knew that already, did you not?"

     The former bard nodded. "I remember the same as you, I am sure." She said. "The family bedecked in jewels and finery, whose gifts to Justinia rivaled the cost of those given by Empress Celene." Leliana reminded me. "The question is...who is this one, whose features are unmistakable, but who was not presented before Most Holy?"

     "A black sheep, perhaps?" I wondered, thinking of how my swearing my life to the Order of Seekers, though a member of Nevarran royalty, had made me very much the same. 

     "I would agree with the assumption." Leliana replied. "Now, I simply want to know why."

     "So long as you remember that a possible fifth Trevelyan child is  _not_ the reason we are here." I reminded her, but attempted to keep my tone gentle. I had enjoyed peaceful conversations with her thus far, and wished to know more of that peace. 

     "I recall." Leliana smiled. "But our purpose for being here does not arrive until tomorrow. I think I will let the solving of this mystery occupy my evening."

     "Blighted fucking mongrels!" The door burst open with a shout and the tavern filled with more people and the thickening of the air that always preceded the shedding of blood. "What right have you to steal coin out from under our fucking noses!?"

     "Or," I said, conversational, as Leliana and I stood together and my hand instinctively fell to my sword, "we could occupy our evening with a horrifically plebian bar brawl."

     Wicked blue eyes flashed to mine and Leliana's dexterous hands disappeared inside her sleeves and the smile that she wore unnerved me in ways I could not name. 

     Her voice shivered down my spine, chilling me. "Oh yes. Let's."


	32. Something More than a Brawl

**The Boar and Dove** **  
****Leliana**

     The air turned thick and the world slowed down, as it always did for me in times of battle. My eyes flicked and darted, sizing up both groups. I saw no shivs, no daggers, no naked blades. I pulled my knives from their hidden sheathes and flipped them back, arming myself with the dull pommels and holding the blades carefully against my forearms. I would not needlessly kill or maim an unarmed opponent. 

     Cassandra did the same as I, relinquishing the hilt of her sword and donning her gloves instead. The leather was fortified around the knuckles and, having faced the woman in single combat, I knew that any who received her fist would not be long standing. All of this passed in the space of a breath and the chaos began. 

     I fell to my knees as the first chair went flying overhead, clattering into the mountain of a man who roared and got to his feet, throwing the chair back into the frenetic throng of exchanged blows, shouted curses, and bombastic threats of what one would do to another. I allowed myself to forget my thoughts and dive into the fray, a necessity now instead of a precaution, if only to preserve oneself. 

     "Leliana!" Cassandra shouted my name and I saw a man lumbering for her in a rage, his eyes wide and spittle dripping from his beard. 

     From my position near the ground, I swept out my leg as Cassandra grabbed her bowl of stew. He tripped over my leg and fell forward, his arms flailing. Cassandra stepped out of his way with artful grace, her hand still holding the bowl, extending it so that the man's face fell into the hot broth as he crashed to the floor. The Right Hand and I both winced at the sound of cracking porcelain, but we had taken one of the brawlers out of commission. 

     It took Cassandra and I that split moment to realize that we could end the fighting nearly as quick as it began. I stayed low, striking at the tangling legs of the combatants while Cassandra would deliver a disorienting blow from above. We worked in eerie tandem, following our instincts and finding, to our great surprise, that in a fight we moved from one decision to the next with a fluidity and similarity that was unnerving. 

     We tuned out the shouts and cries, concentrating on the fight, stopping only when we heard the sound of a bottle shattering and strangled cry of pain...a woman's voice raised in shock and agony. I rose to my full height, flipping my blades in my hands, listening to the rasp of Cassandra's sword leaving its sheath. The crowd quieted and I felt warmth and solidarity at my back, the broad shoulders and firm musculature of Cassandra Pentaghast. 

     We walked step for step, back to back into the center of the room. Save for the moans and groans of the battered and bruised, the brawl had ended. Men and women both got to their feet and ran for the door and those that dallied made haste when the bartender moved from behind the bar, backing Cassandra's sword and my knives with a sizable wooden club. 

     "Leave your gold on the bar." He ordered, his voice quiet, but holding the same power as another voice I once knew. The ability to speak soft and command a nation. "For if you don't, you'll not be welcome here again. We're all free men, but you do not abuse those freedoms in the place of another man's livelihood."

     More shuffling, groaning, and staggering followed his words, but I watched with interest as every man and woman who had taken part in the brawl, who had flung their fists and kicked their legs placed coin on the bar, to pay for the damage that they had done. Remembering the teasing of earlier, I slipped one blade back into its sheath and, using my situation to my advantage, deftly picked Cassandra's pocket, withdrawing two gold sovereigns and flipping them through the air so that they landed on the bar. 

      _I wonder how long it will take her to notice_ , I thought as I watched her, her features severe and her whiskey eyes glowing with battle-fever.  _And how many shades of crimson will she turn when she discovers that she paid my portion of the damage to this establishment...as well as her own?_

     In my mind, I smiled, but my face remained impassive, due to the study of such things across entire years of my life. I had learned to show nothing on the outside, but allowed myself to feel everything internally. No matter how much she hurt me, how much she forced me to endure, Marjolaine had never been able to remove my deeper emotions. She had never been able to make me wall off and suffocate my heart in the manner that she had murdered her own. 

      _Once, I thought I failed her, because I could not learn such things. But with the life I have led...how glad I am that I failed. For it was a heart fully capable of feeling that knew the love of Salem Cousland. A heart fully capable of trust that let Kathyra take my hand and help me heal from the loss of the second half of my soul. Never, in my young years, did I believe I would cherish my failure. Oh, how wrong I was._

     The crowd thinned, leaving the tavern all but empty, and a sharp, easily recognized scent struck through the air, causing Cassandra and I to turn to one another. Metallic like copper and strong as salt, we both knew the scent of blood...quite a lot of blood. We turned towards the heart of the scent and saw the bartender standing between a crumpled figure on the ground and three haggard, dirty men with lank hair, sunken cheeks, and the manic glare of desperation in their eyes. 

     All three bore clenched fists, prepared to fight, and the man in the center held a broken bottle, its blistering sharp, jagged edges dripping with thick, red blood. 

     "Just back away." The man in the center ordered. "Our fight's not with you."

     "Not in my establishment." The bartender shook his head and stood his ground, though I noticed his club had vanished from his hands. "I'll ask you to leave and not return."

     "Give her up and we will." The man swung the bottle and the bartender moved back, but not fast enough, as the tip of the glass cut a shallow furrow across his chest. 

     We did not breathe a word, or need to look at each other. In that moment, Cassandra and I both acted. She charged forward, grabbing the two unarmed men by their shirts and wrenching them backwards. Trusting her to manage them, I slipped between the bottle-wielder and the bartender, grabbing the man's wrist and snapping it backward. My gut clenched as it always did when I heard and felt the snapping of bone beneath my hand, followed by the scream of pain and the stream of curses that followed. 

     "I believe the gentleman asked you to leave his establishment." I said, watching Cassandra box the ears of one man while standing on the neck of the other, keeping him pinned to the floor. The man I held parted his lips and I twisted his fractured wrist a tiny amount, making him wail. "You've interrupted the first decent meal my friend and I have had in two days, but I am feeling a touch of generosity left within me." I hardened my eyes and my voice and saw terror and wrath paint his eyes. "Leave  _now_ and I will let you keep your  _life_." I hissed. 

     In unison, I released his broken wrist and Cassandra removed her boot from the neck of one and her hands from the neck of the other, and the three of them scrambled away, smart enough to avoid the large pile of coin still remaining on the bar. 

     "I'm grateful." The bartender said, nodding at us as Cassandra rejoined me. "If I can beg your aid a moment more."

     He turned aside and I saw the young woman that Cassandra and I had been observing before the brawl broke out. I knew she must be a child of the Trevelyan family, for the eyes were unmistakable, but still remained the mystery of why she came to a tavern frequented by manual laborers and common folk. However, those questions would have to be put aside. 

     The right side of her shirt was soaked with blood, her face pale and tight, even her lips lacked color. She sat up, supported by the bar, but I could see her eyelids fluttering. She was halfway into shock and needed immediate attention and I breathed a prayer of thanks to the Maker for Kathyra, who had seen to it that we had everything necessary to treat an injury.

     "Cassandra, go to the room and get my satchel." I gave the order without thinking, and the Seeker followed it without so much as a noise of disgust or an argument. I looked to the bartender and the few patrons who, like Cassandra and I, had rented a room above the tavern for the evening. "Do you have a private area?" I asked. "Somewhere with a fire?"

     "The kitchen." He knelt down and scooped the woman up in his brawny arms as though she weighed nothing. "She...she doesn't look good. Maker's blood. Do you..."

     "I live with a physician." I told him, and saw relief take over his features. "And know a great deal about caring for wounds. My companion will be here soon with a healer's kit."

     The bartender laid the young woman on top of a table and she moaned, moving her left hand and clutching the blood-stained right side of her body, beneath her right arm. It could not cover all of it, however. I could see the gaping wound stretching across her skin, ugly and deep. I pushed the table closer to the roaring fire, remembering another cleared table, another fire, and another injured woman...my wife. My Salem. Tortured for my sake. I would have given anything to know that night all that I knew now of healing. 

     But this time was not that time, and I had much to do in this moment. I pushed my thoughts of the past away and focused on the immediate necessities. 

     "She's losing a lot of blood." I told the bartender. "Fetch a blanket to cover her and a pillow for her head. She needs to be kept warm and move as little as possible."

     "Right away." The bartender left and I met the younger woman's champagne eyes. 

     "I know you're in pain." I kept my voice low, even, soothing. "But I need you to slow your breathing. Can you do that?"

     I received a weak nod, but better that response than no response. She looked very much on the verge of shock, and I wished to prevent that if I could. To that end, I grabbed a burlap sack of potatoes and set it on the table, using it to prop up the woman's legs, so that what blood she had left might more easily flow to her heart. 

      _Maker, help me._ I breathed a silent prayer as Cassandra entered the kitchen, handed me my satchel, and positioned herself on the opposite side of the table. 

     "My hands are yours." The Nevarran accent sounded tighter than normal. "Direct them as you need."


	33. Her Competence Against My Failures

**The Boar and Dove  
** **Cassandra** ****  


     The door to the kitchen swung open and I flinched at the sound, hoping Leliana did not notice my reaction. There were many things that I wished to change between us, and it would help nothing to be seen as a coward who could not provide aid to the injured. I would force myself to ignore the past and do what needed to be done. I did not know the young woman bleeding on the table, but that did not matter. Life was life, and it was sacred in the eyes of the Maker. 

     The bartender held a thick, woolen blanket out to me and I took it from him, draping it over the young woman's legs and across her torso, lifting her shirt out of the way. It would have to be removed. 

      _There is so much blood,_ my stomach clenched as my knuckles brushed the crimson-drenched material.  _Too much. Leliana, I know you have some skill with healing, but this is...this is a woman who, if on the field of battle, would be left behind in favor of those who **might** be saved. _

     I watched Leliana work with a calm efficiency that staggered and impressed me. She reached into her pack, laying out rolls of bandaging, a leather case that held a variety of small knives and other implements I'd not seen before. Small vials and canisters of herbs and salves were next, as well as a spool of fine black silk and needles that had been bent into a curve. My throat tightened and the scent of blood and fire nauseated me. I could bear it on the field of battle, or on the tournament grounds, but in this place, knowing that life and death waged war above the wounded, I became weak. 

     "Cassandra," Leliana's voice called me back into the place I did not wish to be, but would not leave, "hold her hand. Keep her awake and talking. If she falls unconscious, we might not be able to pull her from that sleep."

      _Antony,_ I remembered the voice of the child I once was, speaking my brother's name, clinging to his hand as people shouted and screamed above me, attempting to desperately to stop the blood that poured in rivers from my brother's body.  _Antony, don't leave me. Please come back, brother, **please!**_

     My own hand trembling, I grasped the hand of the injured young woman, struggling to maintain composure when I felt the chill beneath her skin. Her head turned and her eyes fell on mine. I saw in the champagne gold a woman who had not known any great physical trial, a woman who had never before been here, and who was rightly terrified. 

     "I'm called Cassandra." I spoke, keeping my voice low, holding the woman's eyes and ignoring Leliana as much as I could. "Might I have the pleasure of your name?"

     "T...Tristan." She answered, her voice quivering as she shivered from blood loss and what might have been shock. "M...my name is...Tristan."

     "Cassandra, hold her shoulders." Leliana ordered, soft, and my hands moved to the woman's collarbones as, from the corner of my eye, I watched Leliana lift a bottle of wine. 

     "What is she doing?" Tristan's eyes were wide, full of fear. 

     I, too, was afraid, but I could not afford to show it. I needed to be able to calm this woman, to keep her at peace so that her life might be saved. I remembered the voyage back to Val Royeaux from the Ferelden city of Amaranthine. I'd spat on the deck of the ship and cursed the name of Salem Cousland, Leliana's wife, the woman who beat me beyond unconsciousness and ordered that no mage's healing touch come near me. After that curse, for the first time in our acquaintance, Kathyra had struck me across the face. To this day, I remembered every word she shouted at me. 

      _Every scar on your body belongs to **you** , Cassandra Pentaghast! Each wound that you suffered was earned by  **you** , taken by  **you** , for deeds or punishments or mistakes that rest on  **your** shoulders! I saw the body of the woman you curse laid bare! Salem Cousland is more scar than skin, and the marks she carries are marks of  **selflessness** and  **sacrifice**! Almost  **none** were taken in battles that she fought for herself alone! Not...not all wounds have honor, Cassandra. It would behoove you to remember that. _

     "She is going to clean your wound." I spoke, wondering if Tristan's wound was one of honor, or one that came simply because she stood in the wrong place in the wrong moment. 

      _But the men who remained behind...they demanded that the bartender cease protecting her. If she **is** a Trevelyan, as we suspect, then the entirety of the brawl might have been motivated by something neither Leliana nor I have knowledge of. _

     "This will hurt, Tristan." Leliana spoke. "No matter how much you wish to hold your breath, you  _must_ continue breathing. Do you understand me?"

     "Yes." The woman nodded, and I wanted to know where the bravery in her voice originated, so that I might gather courage of my own. 

     Leliana's eyes caught mine and they burned with a light that often shone in Kathyra's gaze...the manic light of one who had communed and crossed swords with death. I did not know how the woman standing across from me, the left hand to my right, could endure the sights, sounds, and smells required to be experienced by one aiding the injured. If she had seen her lover and wife torn open so many times, how did she separate herself in her mind from the trauma of those times? How did she remain capable of acting in the manner that she did now? 

      _Whatever this strength of hers may be, this is something that Justinia wanted me to see...to see and perhaps, one day, if the Maker is kind, be capable of emulating._

     "Hold her, Cassandra." Leliana ordered and I placed a light amount of weight on Tristan's shoulders as Leliana lifted a bottle of wine that the bartender had set on the table when he gave me the blanket. 

     The former bard splashed wine into the wicked wound beneath Tristan's right arm, a smooth laceration through which I could see the fibers of neatly shorn muscle. I averted my eyes from the sight, unable to bear the memories it conjured. I pressed more of my weight on Tristan's shoulders as she tried to twist, to cover the wound and protect it from the pain. Her eyes went bright with agony and her lips parted in a scream that turned into a wail as she lost breath. 

     " _Stop_ holding your breath." Leliana ordered her, the gentle Orlesian accent colder than steel, making this the second time in my life that I had been terrified of the diminutive, red-haired woman. "I know it hurts so badly you  _want_ to lose consciousness, but your selfishness is more dangerous than you know. Breathe, stay awake, and when I am finished you'll get something for the pain."

     Tristan's eyes flared but she did inhale and I could feel her muscles forcibly relaxing beneath my hands. I watched as the clenched and leaping muscle in her jaw smoothed, pulsing every now and again as Leliana continued cleaning the wound. I relaxed a minor amount, for now the pervading scent was that of wine, not spilled blood, making it easier for me to focus. The memories that waited in the dark of my mind, lurking with talons and claws and fangs to drag my consciousness back to the worst moment I'd lived through, calmed. 

     Leliana held a needle to the firelight and slipped a strand of silk through the eye of it, knotting the thread at the end. She cursed as she examined the wound. 

     "I despise glass." She murmured, and Tristan's eyes flared. 

     "What...what's wrong?" The woman's voice sounded weaker than before and my worry grew. 

     "Glass leaves a cleaner cut than a knife or sword and while Kathyra can mend such a thing with ease I have far less skill with glass than I do metal." Leliana explained. "And this wound is long and deep and wicked. I know very little of the Ostwick Circle. Do you think..."

     "No." Tristan shook her head and sweat-soaked, raven hair splashed across her fine, aristocratic features. No one could deny that she was a beautiful woman. "No magic."

     "Let me put this simply." Leliana argued her point. "I can stop the bleeding and stitch your wound but it might take months for you to recover, and you  might not heal properly. A mage could..."

     "Could...get me disowned." Tristan's eyes cleared and she attempted to sit up, stopped by my hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down against the pillow. "You do not understand, milady. I'm a Trevelyan..."

     "A child of the highest noble house in Ostwick. Akin in rank to Kirkwall's viscount." Leliana raised a single brow and Tristan's eyes widened. "I am quite aware."

     "You're Orlesian..." the young noble stammered, "...how would you know..."

     "I am much more than simply an Orlesian." Leliana smiled. "If you wish to keep talking, I encourage it, but I demand you remain still. If you will not allow the services of a mage healer, then I am your only aid, and if you want this done right I will need time and you need to not move."

     Tristan winced as Leliana pushed the needle through her damaged skin. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, allowing the largesse of the pain to dissipate before she spoke once more. 

     "If my father, mother, brothers or sisters see the hand of a mage upon me," she hissed as Leliana drew the first stitch tight, "I will be cast out into the streets and disowned." I could see the pain in her gaze and extended my hand to her. She grasped it with her own and squeezed, managing the agony as best she could. "Magic...is a...direct affront...to the Maker."

     "I can tell by the derision in your tone that you yourself do not believe such a thing." Leliana observed, her eyes not straying from her work, and I wondered how she could have heard anything in Tristan's tone but the woman's  _obvious_ agony. 

     "What I think...does not matter. But..." Tristan groaned. "I...I  _must_...do all I am able...to keep...what little I have...to help the people...where I can." 

     "Oh?" I asked, intrigued as to what she meant. "What manner of help do you offer by disguising yourself as a dockworker and getting scored by glass in a bar brawl?"

     Fire struck in the young woman's eyes, a fire that once dwelt in my eyes before Beatrix chained it to her uses. I had noticed sparks of that flame once again resurfacing. I wondered what it would be like to burn once more as I had in the old way, fierce in my conviction but...but tempered with love and understanding. A love that Beatrix replaced with pride. An understanding she undercut with false surety. 

     "The dockworkers formed," Tristan drew a sharp breath as Leliana pulled another stitch tight, "a coalition...to protect themselves, see? They band together to make certain...that the merchant's guild...paid a fair wage...and allowed them time to recover from illness or injury...and the like. The new chief of the merchant's guild is refusing to honor the contract drawn up by the coalition."

     "So the dockworker's coalition has refused to work." Leliana followed Tristan's tale to its conclusion.

     "Yes." Tristan nodded, keeping her white-knuckled grip on my hand, causing me to admire the way she focused beyond her pain...there were few nobles who knew great infirmity or injury. Most often they whinged and whine and cowered in the face of such things. "So the merchant's guild found others...willing to work...at a fraction of the cost. The dockworkers appealed...they appealed to my fucking family."

     Leliana's eyes narrowed as she wiped her forehead with the back of her arm, leaving a streak of blood, making her look like the barbarians of old. "And your family..."

     "Did...fuck-all." Tristan gasped and her eyes rolled back as Leliana took several curved needles and threaded them into the woman's flesh to hold the cleanly sliced edges of skin together where the gash was widest, so that her stitches would be accurate and Tristan heal faster with a smaller scar. 

     "You're doing well." Leliana encouraged her as I remained silent, letting sweat of my own run down my face. Not sweat of exertion or of pain, but of old fears revisited and ancient traumas flashing behind my eyes like waking nightmares. "Keep speaking. Why did your father and mother refuse to hear the coalition's appeal?"

     "Because...they were...doing the Maker's work." Tristan bit off the words and I could see in her eyes that the sentence she spoke placed her in more pain than the rip in her flesh. "My...my personal servant told me...and showed me the complaint...written and signed by the coalition leaders... _Andraste's **ass**! _ That  _hurts_."

     "I know." Leliana said nothing further, nothing sympathetic or comforting or kind. 

     I could not see her eyes, but I wondered if they, too, held nightmares. The memories of seeing one she loved torn open time and time again for a world that was more than unforgiving. I wondered if I would see the demons of fear and anguish that she fought as she laced the needle through the skin over and over again. Or if I would see the sorrow of lost love...sweet memories of mending the woman and warrior who had, I could now admit, mended the world. 

     "I was a fool." Tristan continued her story, needing the distraction from the pain. "I took the appeal to my father. He was with...the Revered Mother...speaking of some great plan for city-wide self flagellation...or something of that nature, equally horrific, I'm sure." The derision in the young noble's voice stung and I saw hatred burning in her gaze. "He cast the parchment into the flames and ordered me from his sight, saying that when he saw the heathens making themselves obeisant before their Maker, appealing to God before man, he would aid them."

     Leliana shook her head in disapproval and I pinched my eyes shut, breathing past the shame that bloomed in my spirit. I had been manipulated into being so ignorant and intractable of a person. I had been led to the proverbial slaughter of my own conscience, trusting another's faith before my own, allowing another's belief to guide me, and I would live out the rest of my days making amends to those I hurt during those times. The fact that I was used did not mean my hands were clean. It meant only that more work lay ahead for me, to clean my own hands, and to make certain that they were never used in such a way again. 

     "And you chose to see what was happening?" I inquired, my interest piqued by the young woman who would defy her noble family. 

     "I'm not a for-shit noble." She gritted her teeth and spoke in a vernacular that even the oft-mocked rulers of the Free Marches tended to abstain from, in attempt to grant them more credibility. "Just a for-shit Trevelyan."

     "You are not given to ceaseless worship of the Maker, I gather?" Leliana asked, a smile perched on her lips that I still did not understand, and did not think I ever would. 

     "Not particularly." Tristan answered. "It's done Ostwick more harm than it has brought good. I do what I can, but I am least among my family."

     "I do not see you as such." Leliana mused and I forced myself to look at the wound, seeing now a neatly stitched injury where once had been a gaping laceration in flesh.

     "Forgive my insolence but what good does the respect of a stranger do me?" Tristan asked, her voice laced with bitterness as deep as poison. 

     "A stranger's respect would do you little, I agree." Leliana still had that strange smile perched upon her face. "But the respect of Leliana Cousland might be something worth possessing."

     Tristan's eyes, turned a rich gold by the firelight, flared in something that could only be alarm. She sat bolt upright and then screamed out in pain, doubled over, and clutched the newly stitched wound. 

     "Tristan!" Leliana exclaimed, wrapping her arms around the shuddering woman. "Stay still." She whispered into the small, almost delicate ear. "Stay still and breathe deep." Tristan took a ragged, shuddering inhale. "Slow." Leliana cautioned, her voice now a melody that another could catch the rhythm of and follow through even a haze of pain. "Focus on my voice." Leliana urged, needlessly, in my opinion. Her voice was magnetic and hypnotic, so much so that I found myself breathing in the rhythm she dictated. 

     After a moment, the cheeks that had gone terrifyingly pale took on a touch of color. "You are...Leliana Cousland?" Tristan asked. "Hero of the Fifth Blight and...some say...the Left Hand..."

     "Yes." Leliana answered, and I wondered what possessed her to reveal the information, she, who knew more the need for subterfuge and secrecy than I did. 

     Tristan looked to me, her golden eyes burning. "This means that you are...Cassandra Pentaghast?"

     "The very same." I answered, firing a glare at my counterpart that she ignored. 

     "Bloody fuck." Tristan muttered, sagging backward. Leliana eased her down onto the pillow, reaching for bandaging and wiping away the sweat that dotted the younger woman's brow. "You have to leave." Tristan murmured. "You have to leave Ostwick."


	34. A Brief History of Fanaticism

**The Boar and Dove  
** **Leliana**

     Cassandra's eyes bored into me and I could sense the questions burning at the tip of her tongue. Our presence here was not meant to be known or noticed, much less revealed. I knew this, but I also knew and felt things that Cassandra did not. Could not. For the first, I knew that Tristan was  _not_ this woman's true first name. I saw the hesitation in her eyes when she had spoken it, their drift down and to the left; the slight quiver of her lips as they tripped over the unfamiliar syllables. Why she would disguise her first name but not her last...this was indeed a mystery. 

     Beyond that, a burning lay within me, the instinct that I had learned never to discredit. The voice that whispered through my mind; that had done so since I was taken before Divine Beatrix and questioned, told me that the life of this woman was more important than I could know. When I touched her skin I felt sparks between us and as I stitched her wounds I grew more and more tired, as though mere touch drained my energy. I did not know why this was happening. I would not have an answer for Cassandra when she asked. All I knew was to follow the voice inside my mind; the voice long silent that spoke to me. The Maker's voice, given to her prophet. 

     "You cannot stay here." Tristan spoke again, her eyes darting between me and Cassandra at a frenetic pace. 

     "Is there a reason why, Tristan?" I asked, gentle, hoping to lead her towards the answer. 

     "If...if you become known," her breath caught and she began coughing. 

     Her hand flew to her injury and I quickly removed it, helping her roll to her uninjured side so that the shaking from the cough would not rip the stitches. After a moment, her coughing ended and Cassandra moved to another table, grabbing a pitcher there and filling a cup of water full. She returned and I noticed the subtle quaking of her ever-still, ever-controlled hands as she cupped Tristan's neck and helped her drink. 

     The noble collapsed back onto the pillow, drawing a deep, though ragged, breath. "Thank you." She rasped, and Cassandra nodded, but her hand still shook as she set the cup aside. 

      _Something is troubling her,_ I thought,  _and it is not the fact that our presence here has been revealed. I am familiar enough with Cassandra to know that, even though she disapproves of the revelation, it would not elicit a physical gesture of discomfort or fear. It is something else, something to do with..._

     A horrific memory, revisited only in nightmares for I would not grant it conscious hours, surfaced against my will. The memory of running across the deck of a burning ship, hearing the screams of the wounded and dying, the splash of our enemies' bodies being thrown into the sea. The memory of falling to my knees to see kathyra, the sole woman who gave me any sort of kindness, pierced through with a large piece of the splintered mainmast. Cassandra had been there...she had been there, had called Kathyra her friend, but she had not gone near the body, nor knelt to assess the injury. She'd stood apart and looked anywhere else but at the blood staining her friend's clothes and pooled on the wood beneath her body. 

      _I have seen Cassandra fight, and fought alongside her not two candlemarks ago. Blood and injury make no impact on her psyche...but she trembles in the sickroom. I must ask her of this, at another moment, when we have time._

     "If you become known," Tristan broke the silence, finishing what her coughing fit had interrupted, "the people of Ostwick will see your presence as...as an allowance for and encouragement of what the fools who conceived me are doing to them. Neglect. Extortion...you'll be mobbed. Stoned in the streets."

     "I do not understand." Cassandra's voice held a tight, taut worry, and her eyes filled with a light that I recognized. 

     I recognized the flames in the mellow amber; flames that scorched me in the form of orders given from her lips. The flames that gathered in her heart and soul and burst forth when one questioned the work of the Maker. When I saw that conflagration, that belief burning bright, it was easy to believe that Cassandra had never doubted her faith. I wondered what it might be to have that surety, for I did not. I had questioned the most powerful of loves and I had run from it, once in body, but many more times in my heart. 

     "The fuck you don't." Tristan hissed, the vehemence in her words shocking even me. "I've heard tales about you, Pentaghast." She spoke to Cassandra, her elder and, by all standards of status and rank, her  _better_ , as though she were a woman of equal rank. "And I've seen your face every  _bloody_ day."

     Cassandra's fine, severe features creased into a frown of displeasure and bewilderment. "What do you mean?"

     "After my family returned from Val Royeaux," Tristan said, her eyes locked with Cassandra's, "after news arrived that you were renamed the Right Hand, my parents commissioned a work of art...to be carved in marble  _imported_ from Antiva. As if ignoring the resources of their own land was not  _enough_ , they commissioned a sculptor from  _Orlais_ ," she spat the name, "to craft an image of the Maker, standing behind Andraste, his hands on her shoulders. Standing in front of Andraste is Justinia, her hands outstretched. You," she lifted her hand and pointed at Cassandra, "stand at the right hand, your sword crossed over your breast in reverence. So, Lady Pentaghast, every morning when I leave the abyss in which I was born, I look upon your severe features, for this marble affront to humanity and decency is the first thing anyone sees when they step foot in my family's home."

     The bewilderment on Cassandra's countenance faded but the displeasure remained, burning deeper and deeper until it became  _wrath_. Many men and women would rejoice at the fact that their face had been immortalized in stone, crafted in the same work of art as Thedas' god and his beloved prophet. Cassandra, however, seemed to be enraged, a reaction that gave me hope for the future of knowing her, working with her, and, perhaps, one day, becoming her friend. 

     "And Leliana?" Cassandra's voice sounded like the crack of the whip, echoing across the stone floor of the tavern's kitchen. "Is the Left Hand not featured in this gaudy monstrosity?"

     Tristan chuckled but the sound held no mirth, only ominous foreboding. 

     "To my family," Tristan turned her eyes to mine as Cassandra shot me a look of concern, "Leliana Cousland does not exist. If she existed," Tristan swallowed and I could see the cords of muscle in her neck tightening with pain, "that would mean the Chantry, the Maker's voice upon the world, would have secrets and worse...maybe even blood...on its hands. That world...that world does not exist to the  _pious_ ," she spat the word, "devout Trevelyan family. The Chantry must do no wrong,  _can_ do no wrong...and if they enact their deeds in the name of the Maker, Andraste, and the Chantry...they, too, can do no wrong."

     "That is despicable, convoluted logic." Cassandra fumed and, for the briefest of moments, in the angle she stood, in the light of the hearth-fire, I saw the line of a crooked nose, twice broken, and the flare of righteous anger in silver-blue eyes. 

      _Salem..._ my heart whispered her name and panged at the gentle syllables of it.  _Salem would march into the Trevelyan estate and tear down that sculpture with her bare hands. I wonder what Cassandra will do, if anything._

     "I know." Tristan growled, forcing herself once more into a sitting position. 

     I allowed her to move, watching pain cross her features, then fade. She would still require a great deal of rest to recover, and the attentions of a proper healer, but I felt confident that we would at least be able to see her home this very night. I reached for a roll of bandaging and Tristan turned to me, a lightning quick smile crossing her features, giving her, for that instant, a devastating sort of beauty. 

     "I take it I am pronounced well?" She asked. 

     "You are pronounced to be better than you were." I told her, beginning to wrap the bandaging around her torso, covering the stitches. "But you do require the aid of a proper healer."

     "I shall keep you a secret then." Once more the roguish grin, and the champagne eyes turned to Cassandra. "For if I call for the healer and tell who helped me, word shall reach my mother and father and that healer shall be sent home. For surely, the touch of the Divine's Right Hand can mend the tears in my flesh."

     "Do you mock me?" Cassandra asked, but in her tone I heard no anger, and it stunned me. 

     "No." Tristan shook her head. "I've heard of the things you have done. All for the people. All for their good. You allow your faith to drive you to make better the lives of others...you do not better your own life by demanding the faith of others. It is not you I mock, Lady Pentaghast, but the name and blood to which I belong."

      _The name and blood to which I belong..._

     Her words resonated in my mind as I gave Tristan a fresh shirt from my pack to wear in place of her ruined garment. After a cup of willow-bark tea with a drop of poppy syrup, I helped Tristan to her feet. Cassandra supported her with an arm about her waist and we began the journey through the streets of Ostwick towards the Trevelyan estate. All the while, Tristan's words rang in my ears, reminding me that I had chosen my name. That I had taken the name of a strong,  _worthy_ woman of faith. Before loving Salem, I had no name in which to take true pride, no name to honor, to aspire to. I bore a name now, a name that would never know derision.

      _Even dead these many years, my beloved,_ I looked to the moon and remembered the tears shed, laughter shared, and love made beneath it,  _you are still giving unto me all that you have and all that you are. I miss you, Salem. I have found comfort and I have found peace but still...still I miss you._  


	35. Unto Every Rebellion its Cost

**Ostwick Harbor** **  
Salem**

     I rested on the deck of the ship, enjoying the gentle rocking as it rose and fell on the water. I gazed to the sky, allowing my thoughts to drift in the sea of stars. With the ship docked and the crew gone to enjoy the delights of shore leave, I felt comfortable enough to remove my mask and gloves. After hiding them for so long, my own skin, and the scars I knew so well, seemed foreign to me. I felt a stranger in my own flesh, but all of that changed when I turned my eyes to the stars. 

     The constellations brought me back to one of the many nights spent with Leliana beside the fire in our camp. I could no longer look at the night sky without remembering the first story she told me, of Alindra and her warrior, her one love, forever separated in life. They were given mercy in death, placed together in the stars, allowed to live in the night sky and love one another, forever. 

      _Will it be so with us, dear heart?_ Inside my mind, I spoke to the woman I loved.  _Will we be written into the heavens? Are there stars capable of being woven into a constellation that speaks of a lover who could not die...but a love that could? And did?_

     My soul ached and my body hurt, twin-tandem pains that reminded me that I was, indeed, still alive. I knew this for I had dwelt in the lands of death. Pain did not venture there. Memories that were bittersweet, in life, lost all of their bitterness on the other side of mortality. 

      _I have set Salem aside in my heart._

     Those words repeated in my mind without ceasing. While sequestered in the crow's nest, I allowed my mind to wander, but always it returned to those words. The words that hurt me in a way that also healed...another blistering contradiction that defined the life I was not meant to lead. Or to have. 

     "Ah, there she lies, stalwart still in her resolve. Like a hero cast in marble, unable to move, eternally attacking and defending, but unable to commit either action. Paralyzed for an eternity."

     The sound of that voice crawled down my spine and I bolted to my feet, looking to the back of the ship, from whence the words had come. There, in all her glory, stood the woman who saved my life, become the dragon I slayed for her daughter's sake, then clawed her way into eternity to drag me back into a third life. Flemeth. A woman. A dragon. A...god?

     "Why are you here?" I demanded to know. "You need not hunt me across the face of Thedas. I have done all that you asked of me."

     "How sweetly she lies, the woman of truth." Flemeth crooned, mocking me with every careful intonation. "You have done everything I have asked, save for one. The single reason I called you back into existence."

     "What you wish of me as it comes to that will  _never_ happen." I vowed, vehement in my resolve to stand against all that she wished for me to do. I would not wound Leliana's faith. I would not break my love's beautiful heart. 

     "Oh?" Flemeth turned to me and her eyes, the eyes she had given to Morrigan, sparked. "Falsehoods do not become you, Salem." She spoke my name with the sinuousness of a snake. "I saw the warring in your heart when your once-lover stepped foot onto this ship. I watched your body cower and your hands curl into impotent fists as you struggled; as your frail, human heart met temptation in battle and nearly succumbed. I wonder," she sing-songed as she drew close to me and traced the spiderwebbing dragonfire scars on my hand, "if the scars across your psyche are as beautiful as those that decorate your flesh."

     I pulled away from her touch, disgusted by the feeling of her hand against those scars. I knew the power of words and emotions. There were not many that I hated. I hated Rendon Howe for the crimes committed and the butchering of my family. I hated Loghain Mac Tir for desertion that equaled regicide, seizing the throne, and threatening to split the country in two while a Blight ravaged the land. I hated Marjolaine for the atrocities Leliana had endured in place of her bardmaster. Those three mortals alone bore my hatred, for hatred of another living thing was not a standard in my life. But...I  _hated_ Flemeth. 

     With all the passion I could muster, I  _despised_ the creature, the woman-dragon-deity who violated the sacredness of a warrior's death. The creature that dragged my soul across eternity's border in order to shatter the faith and break the heart of the woman, the prophet, who could save Thedas with a message from a long silent god. A god who believed in love. I hated Flemeth with a passion I could neither temper nor control. Unlike many who bore witness to her, I did not fear her. She had used the energy and power she possessed to make me live again. She  _needed_ me. No matter her threats or her mockery, she needed me. 

     "Whatever scars lie in my psyche are no concern of yours." I spoke, my voice clear and crisp in the night, echoing out onto the water. "And you cannot cut them deeper by mocking me with reminders of temptation." I laughed in her face and she smiled, though her eyes hardened. "Temptation will always be strong, yes. But if I did not war with it, I would not be human. You mock me for being what you desired me to be. I am not the one who has failed." 

     The moon glinted off of Flemeth's hair and she raised a single eyebrow, a skill I watched her daughter use on multitudinous occasions. 

     "Do I infer from your words, Salem, that you believe I have failed?" Her words whipped at me, sharp enough to split skin. 

     "Have you not?" I asked, pretending at wide-eyed innocence. 

     The gold of her eyes hardened further. "In what way does your limited mind build the construct of my failure?" She asked. "Pray tell me so that I might see my flaws from mortal eyes."

     "You have failed to make me reveal myself to Leliana." I did not crow triumph, but stated fact. "You placed your wager on temptation, against me, and  _that_ , Flemeth, is where you have failed."

     I did not expect her to become angry. In the myriad times she'd come to hound me, to mock me, to push me further towards insanity, she had never become angry. I knew that the same would be true of this meeting. I did not, however, expect to see smoldering calculation enter her eyes and spread across her countenance. In that moment, as the shadow of scheming passed across her features, I knew I had spoken amiss. I pushed her too far and claimed things that she would  _not_ forget. I would suffer for my insolence. 

     "Perhaps I was wrong to believe that you would succumb to temptation." The Witch of the Wilds assented. "But, lest in your temporary triumph you forget, I am still the one that runs this game, Salem. I do not lose. If temptation has failed me, then I shall place my wager on something that I  _know_ shall be infinitely more effective."

     "Render your sentence and do your worst." I taunted her, knowing that, even if I abased myself and recanted my words, it would not change the actions she planned to take. 

     "You thought that, upon the sight of her, your heart would break." Flemeth needled me. "Sorrow oft leads into temptation, a pain so powerful that few can resist. But you are a woman of pain, and therein lies the heart of my error. You know and understand too much of this world, and too much of yourself. Only one thing can make another forget themselves and foreswear their every good intention. Therefore, next time you lay eyes on the woman you took to wife, you shall know what it is to  _despair_."

     Flemeth laughed, wickedness and ferocity, and I saw the skin of her face ripple and contort as her body melted within and without itself, buckling and coalescing as she adopted a new face. Morrigan had been skilled enough, when I knew her and called her friend, to shift her shape into that of many animals. Flemeth had power and skill enough to change her shape into that of another human being. 

     My soul iced over as I looked on Flemeth's final form, a man with tanned, leathery skin, scraggly hair and beard, arms roped with muscle and a look of pure fury in her eyes. Whatever she planned to do in this shape, in this body...

     " _Do. Not. Dare._ " I growled, sensing the bitch's malevolent intentions. "Do not  _dare_ think to harm Leliana."

     "Now, now." The woman's voice emanated from the man's body. "There is no need to be so demanding. The hands of fate must be allowed to turn as they will."

     "If you harm one hair on her head, I will  _slaughter_ you." I threatened, grabbing Flemeth by the collar of her ragged shirt and pulling her to me. 

     "Always you fight and always it is naught but futile gesturing." Flemeth claimed, her breath smelling of nightshade and citrus. "How many times have you plunged your sword into my chest since you walked back from death?"

     "At least seven." My grasp on her shirt loosened as she reminded me of our past, calling to mind the many times that, lost in a rage, I lifted my weapons and drove them into her heart...only to watch her laugh and heal before my eyes. 

     As much as I desired to, I could not kill her. As much as I desired to, I could not lift a blade to my own throat and end my suffering and the nefarious reason for my indrawn breath. 

     "Threaten me all you like, Salem." Her smile sickened me. "I am a god you shall never be able to kill. I have endured the insouciant wagging of your tongue long enough. You think you have known pain? All times before, you have suffered beneath my mercy. Now..." a flash of light, pure, powerful, and painful, burst forth from her hand and slammed into me, knocking me against the railing of the ship. I stared up at her and she considered me as one might consider an ant beneath their feet. "...you will suffer beneath my wrath."

     Another blinding flash of light and she vanished. I dragged myself to my feet, knowing my back would be badly bruised from being slammed against the railing. I did not know what new torment Flemeth had in store for me. I did know that all I desired to do was leave this ship, seek the woman I loved, and protect her. 

      _But that is what Flemeth **wants**._ I knew this even though I did not wish to acknowledge the truth of it. I crumpled to my knees in a useless puddle of humanity, wanting to fight, wanting to run, but forcing myself to stay and to wait and to resist the rawest and purest of my instincts.  _Therefore, I dare not follow my heart. Maker, protect the one I love. Keep Leliana safe...and grant me strength enough...grant me strength enough to stay my hands and still my feet, to remain unmoved. Grant me strength enough to strangle my heart...yet another time._


	36. What Darkness May Come

** The Streets of Ostwick   
** **Cassandra**

     "I do not believe I have ever been more thoroughly disgusted in my  _life_." I snapped.

     Leliana and I stood inside the great hall of the Trevelyan estate, watching a young woman, presumably Tristan's personal servant, supporting the young woman as they walked the considerable distance to the staircase we presumed led to her quarters. It had been quite a long walk here from the tavern, and my counterpart and I were concerned for the young noble. Halfway to her home, Tristan began leaning heavily on Leliana; her face whiter than bleached bone, her breath coming in short, rapid gasps. I would grant the young noblewoman her share of grit, but it might have done her some good to swallow her pride. With her name and station, she could have ordered a carriage and summoned a healer, riding the distance in comfort and safety. Instead, she demanded that we walk. 

      _Though the swallowing of pride is a lesson that I, too, am still learning. I cannot fault her overmuch, for, at her age and in her position, I might have done much the same._

     "Even in the heart of the Chantry in Val Royeaux, I never saw such ostentatious displays." Leliana nodded, her eyes shooting blue sparks of lightning. 

     The pillars of the house were ornate, carved marble; each one exquisitely rendered into a frame of the prophet Andraste's life. From the top of the manor, banners hung, fine cloth with embroidered memoirs to the sacrifices the Trevelyan family had made in the name of the Maker. My throat tightened with nausea and disgust as I saw names and portraits forever stamped in inappropriately expensive cloth. Names and faces of the Trevelyans lost in the battles of the Exalted March, the Trevelyans dedicated to the Order of Seekers, the templars, or the Chantry itself. 

     "It is one thing to honor the Maker in a house of worship built for his glory." I claimed, remembering and realizing that, not so long ago, I might not have had this reaction towards the Trevelyan's decor. While I might not have approved of the expenditure, I would have honored their faith and pride. 

      _But I saw the grave wound on a young woman's body--a wound incurred because those who wear her name have dishonored the Maker's will in neglecting the oversight of their province and care of their people. No faith, no pride is worth blood spilled for needless purpose, anger that could be calmed._

     "It is another thing entirely to have the home of your family made to look more akin to a Chantry than a noble's estate." Leliana turned her back and I saw her hands clenched into fists. 

     "Something is troubling you?" I asked as we left the estate and began the long walk back to the Boar and Dove, hoping to claim at least a few candlemark's rest before our meeting tomorrow. 

     "The state of this world, Cassandra." Leliana answered. "The state of the nobility in general. They are puffed up, proud creatures. They do not know justice, but excess; they do not know service, but mastery. They are enslaved by both hands, chained to their wealth and chained to the service of those who are wealthier and more powerful than they." The former bard, an elegant woman by all counts, shocked me when she spat in the streets in the direction of the home, ultimate derision. "That was not the original intention of nobles and rulers...that was not the original intention of power placed in the hands of the  _proper_ people...the  _proper_ bloodline."

     I paused and looked at her. The fire in her eyes would soften many a heart, I knew, for it was beautiful and fierce. What I wanted to know, what I wanted to understand of her, was how her mind had changed. Justinia told me of the woman Leliana had been, the woman who paraded among the nobility of Orlais, taken part in the Game with skill unmatched and a dexterous hand that many would envy. Leliana might have been chief of her profession, save that the woman who taught her had chained her with love...and betrayed her with a kiss. 

     "Do you truly believe that any noble, any person who is given power, would be better than those we have now?" I asked. "Is there a proper person any longer, Leliana? Are not all bloodlines tainted with greed?"

     "No." Leliana shook her head and her eyes burned into mine. "Cassandra, I understand that you have your beliefs about the woman who was my wife. I know that...that many unfortunate things happened between the two of you, but you...but you did  _not_ see the woman Salem was. In all Ferelden, never once did I hear the Cousland name reviled. In spite of knowing her duty as a warden, in spite of knowing that she needed to survive, Salem  _sacrificed_ herself to  ** _torture_** in exchange for my life and two others. And when...when we returned to Highever, Cassandra, Salem  _bowed low_ before her people and begged their forgiveness and for abandoning them for so long. All of this, I witnessed. All of this...after all that I had believed nobility to be, silks, satin, and that infernal  _Game_ that means  ** _nothing_** to me now...all of this destroyed whatever pride I might have left. And it has made me despise those who sit in the seats of power."

     "So you admired the young Trevelyan, I take it?" I asked, humbled by the force of her words, awed at the sight of the light of a woman many years dead shining in her eyes. "Doing as she did, attempting to help her people."

     "Less admiration." Leliana admitted and we continued our trek. "More sorrow. She fights a losing battle in this city against her own family. If she continues to do as she is doing, then she will soon be dead...or jaded."

     "You laud one woman's attempts to aid her people and decry another's." My voice hardened. I disliked Leliana's wavering on her approval of what I considered similar actions. 

     "I do not decry Tristan's attempts." Leliana said, and I believed her. "But she is unlearned. She has been neglected. What she attempts to do comes from a place of mercy, but also a place of rebellion against that which she has been subjected to. In her efforts to do good, she might do more harm." Leliana sighed. "Do we not both know, Cassandra, in intimate ways that scar our souls, that good intentions can lead to utter ruination?"

     Her words, once again, humbled me in their earnestness and truth. "Yes." I admitted. "These are lessons we have learned in blood."

     "Pain." She assented. 

     "Loss." I murmured, watching the red hair move in acknowledgement of my truth. 

      _Most Holy, it seems, is correct. Leliana and I do stand on more common ground than I think either of us perceive. This mission, though I do not yet know how it will end, has at least given me insight into the woman who is the Left Hand of Divine Justinia. And, from all evidence I have seen, she is a good woman. Broken, in some places. Hardened in others. Just as we all are. It was an unkind fate and the machinations of a scheming woman that first brought us together. But, I steadfastly belief that, given time, she and I will be able to complete the Maker's work throughout Thedas. Justinia, myself, and Leliana. Three as one, as intended._

     "So much loss." Leliana breathed. 

     We continued the rest of the way in silence and it illuminated the eerie quiet of Ostwick as a city. Every  now and again I would see light through the window of a tavern, the people sitting inside, nursing their drinks. We heard no clanging of tankards, no loud speech of drunken men or women. No women of the night stood in the alleyways to ply their wares. 

     "Even Kirkwall is not so quiet as this, and Knight-Commander Meredith reigns there." Leliana voiced my thoughts. "The effect is positively unsettling. I wonder, Cassandra, if the Trevelyans have imposed a curfew."

      "For an entire Free Marcher city?" I wondered. "It seems unlikely, but after all that we have witnessed and been told today, I would not be surprised. I do not like this silence. Something is..."

     "Wrong." Leliana reached into her sleeves, where she carried deadly blades in hidden leather bracers. Ahead, we could see the sign for the Boar and Dove, but it seemed too far away. 

     I could not say what happened next; but it felt as though a strike of lightning drove me against the wall of a general store. My right cheek caught fire as it scraped against the rough rock. A wave of dizziness washed over me as I tried to regain my balance and my understanding. I reached out and pressed my hands against the wall, pushing myself away from it, stumbling backwards as the world swerved. 

     "Cassandra!" I heard Leliana cry out and I used her voice to anchor me, to pull me into cognizance. 

     I drew my sword as I saw Leliana embattled against the man whose wrist she'd broken in the tavern, the man who had wounded Tristan Trevelyan. However, he did not move as a man hindered, a man in pain, and he grappled with her using both of his arms, using his greater strength and height to bear down on her. Blood trickled down my cheek. I ignored it and ran forward, grabbing the man by his leather jerkin, attempting to wrench him backwards, to pull him off of her. He stood strong, even with my arms laced around his chest, struggling to pull him off of Leliana. His legs flashed out and I lost sight of Leliana, panicked when I heard a sharp, strained cry from her lips. 

      _Oh, Maker, please..._

     Pain exploded in my back as the man gave his ground, going limp so suddenly that I lost my balance and crashed to the street while he rose to his feet. My lungs burned as the breath was knocked from them with a sharp kick. I strained to breathe as the man reached for his belt. I pushed myself backwards just in time for another line of fire to slice up my left cheek, missing my throat by inches--his first aim, I was certain. Another kick to my ribs and I groaned, prostrate on the ground, still begging for air. 

     I watched in futile horror as the man lifted Leliana from where she'd been, doubled over on her knees from his kick. I fought to move as he dragged her away, out of my field of vision. I opened my mouth and gulped in air, pounding my fists against the cobblestones, listening to the clashing of blades the muttered Orlesian curses. I needed to stand up. I  _had_ to  _fight_. I had to protect the woman Justinia loved as though she were Leliana's own mother. After a struggle, I managed to roll over and push myself to my knees, propping myself up with my sword, dragging myself to my feet just as the man fled the shadowed corner he'd dragged Leliana into. 

     His body slammed into mine, that impressive, unlikely strength forcing me down to my knees once again. I hite the street for a second time, gasping out in pain as my ribs jarred. His hands rested on my shoulders, forcing me to remain still and his eyes were wild, frenzied, when I looked into them. 

     "Do not meddle in another's blood feud." He ordered, snapping his knee into my chin, knocking me backwards onto the streets again. My teeth snapped agonizingly against each other and I moaned like a whipped dog, hearing nothing more, not even footfalls, as our attacker vanished into the night. 

     "Cassandra!?" Leliana's voice broke the silence, thick with worry. A moment later, she emerged into the moonlight and dropped to her knees beside me. "Are you all right? Can you breathe." Her hands roved over my chest, pressing on my ribs in an uncomfortable diagnostic manner I knew all too well. 

     "Shaken and bruised is all." I extended my hand so that she could help me up, but she did not take it. 

     "He cut your face rather badly." Leliana whispered, her fingertips applying a light touch to my cheeks. "You'll need the cuts stitched. Hurry. He's gone for now, but there is a chance he might return, and might not be alone. We need to get inside, behind a barred door."

     I nodded and she aided me to my feet. Forsaking our pride, we ran for the tavern, slowing only when we were behind its doors. With a nod to the bartender, we made our way upstairs, entering our room. I closed the door and dropped the bar, feeling safer on the second story. I leaned the door and breathed deeply, encouraged when my bruised ribs merely twinged. The initial rush of battle-fever faded away, allowing me to feel the burning cuts on my cheek and more of the damage done to my chest. Morning would not be a pleasant thing to greet. 

     "He used both hands." Leliana murmured, drawing my attention. "I broke his wrist...felt it snap...he didn't have a splint...not even a bandage." 

     Leliana slumped back against the wall, staring at her hands. My lips parted in horror. They were covered with blood...the same blood spreading across the right side of her body, beneath her arm, staining her clothing. She looked up at me, her eyes glazed over with shock, not an ounce of color in her face. My heart dropped into my stomach and fluttered like a trapped hawk.

     "He used both hands." Leliana breathed again and I could hear the pain in her voice, but could not reach her fast enough as she crumpled to her knees and pressed her hand to the center of another rapidly spreading crimson stain. Across her belly. 

      _Oh, Maker no...please no. Not there._

     "Cass..." She looked to me in  _agony_ and  _need_ and I began shaking, "...hel...help me."


	37. A Hell Far Too Well Known

**The Boar and Dove  
Leliana**

      _This is not happening. This **cannot** be happening. How did I let him gain the upper hand? How was he so strong? How did he  **use both hands**!? I broke his wrist! I  **heard** the bone snap...I...I broke his wrist. _

     I struggled with my thoughts, desperately attempting to follow them to their ending. I needed to keep my mind, not let the pain take over and render me useless. I could not be useless. I'd seen Cassandra when we tended to Tristan. I needed her so much now and  _she_ would need help and guidance...I did not know if I could provide it. It was taking all of my willpower to remain even on my knees. The entirety of my torso was made of fire, and the blood pouring out of the holes in my skin was lava hot. I wanted to give in to the burn, the pain, the black, but I...I could not give...not surrender...not let my eyelids flutter...clo...closed...

     "Leliana!" I'd heard alarm in Cassandra's voice before, but never panic. I heard panic now. 

      _I never want to hear it again. It is so desperate, so broken._

     "Leliana, look at me!" Cassandra's hands were on my face, warm and solid, but I could feel worry in her touch. 

     The bastard had cut her left cheek. It needed stitching. I needed to get my satchel. Needed to stop her bleeding. Facial lacerations, if untreated for long, could scar worse than many other wounds. Cassandra had lost so much...she did not need to lose her beauty. My satchel lay on the stand near the bed. If I could reach it, I could help her. I reached out for it, crying out as pain ripped up my side, under my arm, shredding through my stomach and spreading to my heart, making it stutter-kick in my chest. I felt myself falling and braced for impact with the floor. Instead, I met the soft embrace of strong arms, full breasts, and the sturdy body of a warrior. 

     "Stay still." Cassandra's voice trembled, but it sliced through the bleary fog in my mind; made me brutally aware of the pain that fought to rule me. "For the love of the Maker, Leliana, stay still."

     I followed her orders, trying to hold my own weight, unable to do so, collapsing further and sagging in her arms, feeling another rush of blood pulse out of the gravest wound and sheet down across my stomach. Kathyra would lose her mind. She'd felt this. She feared something terrible would happen. I should have trusted her intuition; should never have taken off my armor. I should have...

     "I can't..." I gasped, struggling to keep my thoughts centered, focused, on task, "...can't...keep bleeding."

     "I know." Cassandra's voice attempted to be soothing, steady, stern, but I could hear its quaver...its fear. 

     She was the sole help I had here and her body felt strong and warm and capable, but the hands that held me were the same hands I'd seen shaking not candlemarks before, struggling to function and help the wounded. I'd not known this pain since the dungeons of Val Royeaux, and I did not know if I could keep the demons of that time at bay. Cassandra did not know of them, even...even Kathyra did not know the full scope of the scars that hell left on my psyche. I wanted my wife...my Salem. She could always, always keep the darkness at bay. 

      _Salem...I need you. I'm hurt...I'm **hurt** so very badly. Please, come **back**. **Please** , Maker, don't let her be dead. _

     "Leliana." Cassandra's voice dragged me further into knowledge of agony. "I'm going to lift you onto the bed. You are going to be all right. Stay with me." She pulled me tighter to her, almost a desperate embrace. "Stay with me."

     I gritted my teeth. Cassandra rolled me over and my lips parted, a scream tearing out of my throat. Breathing became an ordeal, the hardest thing I'd ever done as agony fissured through my gut and lungs. Cassandra held me behind my shoulders, her other arm fitting beneath the bend of my knees. She rose to her feet and I screamed until black clouded my vision. I clenched my fists, digging my nails into my palms, hoping a different sort of pain would give me clarity, that I might stay cogent long enough to...

     A horrific, pained sob tore out of my throat as Cassandra eased me down onto the mattress, cradling my head on a feather pillow with a gentleness I did not know she possessed. The soft surface of the bed felt like the warm embrace of death, and greater fear crept in. Fear of the comfort. Fear of the softness. Fear that it felt like the last memories of pleasure. Fear that I might...

      _I'm going to die. Maker's breath, I am going to...no. No. I...I **can** move through this; I  **can** survive...oh Maker, please help me. Something...something inside is very damaged. _

     "Leliana, I need your help." Cassandra pleaded, her hand against my cheek, so very, very warm. "Tell me what to do."

     "Elevate..." I lifted my hand, waving it in the vague direction of my feet, "...my legs."

     Cassandra moved with alacrity, snatching pillows from the room's second bed and stacking them atop each other. She took a moment to reach out, pressing two of her fingers to the pulse point at my neck. I knew she would at least be truthful. She could be nothing else. 

     "Your heart is beating too fast and you're losing too much blood." Her eyes were on mine but I could barely see them. My eyelids were fluttering of their own volition; my fingers freezing and twitching. I wanted sleep. I could  **not** fall asleep. "Stay with me, Leliana." Cassandra ordered, her voice intense, pleading. 

     She lifted my legs and agony struck. My hands flew to the screaming wound, the worst of them all, the hole in my belly where the knife had pierced, been twisted, and ripped out. My eyes flared wide and I heard my voice shredding out in a wretched cry of pure anguish. Warmth and weight settled across my legs as Cassandra laid blankets over them, doing all she could to prevent me from going into shock. 

     My surroundings took on soft, blurred edges. The pain dulled. I knew what was happening to me. I'd seen it too many times; felt it too many times. I was hemorrhaging blood, almost too much. Not lethal...not lethal yet. My hand went slack over the wound, but I felt a wash of blood against my palm with every beat of my heart. 

     "Cass..." I managed to rasp, my tongue thick in my mouth. Her eyes flew to mine. They were so beautiful and fierce. How had I never before noticed their beauty? I fought to lift my fingers from where they lay over the injury. "Pressure." I whispered. "Here."

     The Seeker nodded and she reached into my pack, rummaging through it, returning with rolls of clean bandaging...what little we had left after treating Tristan. It would not be enough. I had to speak again. I did not want to speak. It hurt so much...hurt so much...so tired...

     "Poultice." I forced myself to form the words and Cassandra began rifling through the bag. "Shepherd's purse...and elfroot. Helps..."

     "Stop bleeding." Cassandra cut me off, her voice tight with worry, not anger. "I've had more of those strapped against my skin than I care to recall." Her search through the satchel became all but frenetic. "Oh, thank the Maker." She breathed as she pulled free a few of Kathyra's carefully prepared poultices. "We haven't many left." She told me what I already knew. "Are you injured anywhere else?" Her dusky skin looked so pale, even beneath the fresh blood from the cuts on her face. "Is there just the one wound? How many times were you..." She seemed unable to articulate the last word. 

      _Stabbed._

     I struggled and managed to lift three of my blood-slick fingers. Cassandra looked even paler, but the outlines of everything were made of soft, black dandelion fuzz, gold and silver sparks twitching at the center. I could have been imagining all of this. Dreaming. 

     "You were stabbed three times?" She asked, voice tight, the vice pressure of worry crushing her throat. 

     "Yes."

      _The knife went in three times. Twice beneath my right arm...once in my stomach. It does not hurt as much as it should anymore, and that is a bad thing. A very bad thing indeed._

     Cassandra's lips moved, but they said nothing I could hear, and my vision was blurred too much to read them. I wondered if she prayed...I hoped that she prayed. Maker...everything hurt. I did not understand how this happened. How the man could have been so strong after having a bone broken. How he could have used both hands. Why he'd come to take his vengeance alone, instead of with the support of others. So much did not make sense. I belonged to the Maker. She called me to do her work across Thedas, but I'd called for her help, her aid...and been abandoned. 

      _Why have you forsaken me?_ I asked the god I loved.  _Why have you let me be harmed? Is it not enough that I serve you, that I have given up everything, lost **everything** , and suffer still for that service? Why, my Maker...please...tell me why. _

     My shirt moved up, Cassandra's hands shaking as she revealed the wound. Her eyes went wide as she saw thick, crimson blood surging up from the ragged tear in my skin. Gentle, she set the poultice over the injury and I felt the subtle stinging of the herbs. 

     "Leliana, I..." She wiped sweat from her brow, "...this is going to  _hurt_." 

     She gave me warning for what I already knew. I clenched my jaw as Cassandra rested both hands atop the poultice. Even the slight pressure hurt, but the worst was yet to come. She breathed an apology and bore down, using all of her warrior's strength. My chest tore open, my throat shredded and, as if from a distance, I heard two syllables ripped out of my lips in a  _shriek_ of raw agony and pure anguish.

     " ** _SALEM!_** "

     Tears poured out of my eyes like blood.

      _Where are you, my love?_ My eyes darted wildly, looking for my wife.  _You always...always come...when I need you...when I'm hurt._

     "C...Cass." I tried to lay my hand over hers. "Cass, where is she?"

     "Where is who, Leliana?"

     "M...my wife." I sobbed out as another shockwave from the pressure ripped through my torn abdomen. "Please," I managed to squeeze her wrist, barely able to feel her skin, wondering if delirium had hit yet, "please find my wife. I ne...need her."

     Cassandra's eyes were lovely and bright. Cassandra's eyes were full of pity and sorrow. The black encroached and Cassandra's eyes split apart, whiskey-gold stars in the heavens. 

     Darkness swallowed the stars.  

 


	38. Prayers Upon Deaf Ears

** Ostwick Harbor   
** **Salem**

     I paced back and forth, listening to the dull, hollow thud of my boots against the wooden deck of the ship. The sound, empty and echoing, reminded me of the beat of my heart. Dull, listless, existing against my will. I wanted to scream out to the heavens, to demand knowledge of why I had been chosen for this...I would speak free with any god who would answer. But I could not...I had borne witness to three gods, one who fell by my hand, a corrupted archdemon. Willing as I was, the risk lay inherent. To speak with a god was to sign a contract, and I had drunk my fill of divine meddling. 

      _Are there no others that the gods can speak to? No other soul who might be worthy of having their waking days and sleeping nights turned into a landscape of emotional torment? I am proud of the scars that mar my body. I earned them in a battle worth fighting against a foe who could and would have destroyed Thedas. The scars that mar my psyche, however...those I have no pride for. I should be strong enough to withstand the damage that is done to my mind, but I am...I am not._

     I did not understand how it was possible, but I  _longed_ for the days of the Blight. Not simply for the fact that Leliana and I would be together...but because there had been a  _real_ , physical enemy to fight. There had been battles, bodies to sink my swords into and  _know_ , beyond doubt's shadow, that I claimed victory. This war that I waged with the god who brought me back...I could do nothing with my blades, and my resistance seemed so passive and useless that I wondered if I did any true good at all. 

     My hands clenched into fists, the curve of my nails biting into the skin of my palms. I wanted to bleed. I wanted to be able to kill a god again. 

     "Such control. Such courage in the face of the knowledge that you possess. I did not expect this, Salem. For you to remain here in horrific pain, heart clenched by terror's own palpitations, clenching your hands as you sweat your own blood instead of sweeping in as the avenging angel...it seems I might have underestimated the ferocity of your resolve."

      _Speak of the demon and it shall appear at thy shoulder,_ the old adage whispered through my thoughts. 

     I spun to face Flemeth, my personal god of torment. She still wore her guise as the man with scraggly hair and beared, sunken cheeks, and hatred burning in his eyes. Once again, I watched her features melt and twist, her spine elongate as she shifted into the form of power with which she had greeted me in the mountains where I'd returned from paradise. The light of the moon gleamed off of her hair and her eyes sparked with that eerie golden glow that Morrigan inherited. Flemeth knew I despised watching her alter her form, because it reminded me of the mask and gloves and the myriad names I had given myself over the years in order to remain, in the minds of the people of the land, dead beneath the earth. 

     Flemeth moved further into the moonlight and my throat tightened. Her hands and clothing were blotched with dark stains and, as she came closer, I smelled copper and salt, the tang of blood in the air. My entire body tensed and I took a step backward, but Flemeth was too swift. Moving faster than speed itself, she locked my wrist inside her grasp, twisted my arm behind my back, and nearly wrenched my shoulder from its socket.

     I struggled against her, but she was too strong. Not a mere woman, but a god that I could not kill. The sensation of her breath whispering through my hair disgusted me, making me more tainted than when I had darkspawn blood bound and twisted into my veins by ancient magic. The scent of blood grew stronger and my heart beat hard and fast inside my chest, wanting to break out of my ribs, run though the city streets, searching very inn and every tavern, for I knew what had been done. 

     Cold steel ghosted along my unscarred cheek, then appeared before my eyes, held in Flemeth's hand. The aroma of blood filled my nose and overwhelmed my mind, tossing me backwards into memories and times I did not wish to relive. The blade was long and sharp and wicked--a death sentence forged in steel--and it was drenched in fresh blood, liquid scarlet glowing in the moonlight. My throat tightened and I strained again to free myself, to take the knife and plunge it into Flemeth's heart, even though it would not kill her. 

     "Stop struggling, misbegotten chaos daughter." Flemeth whispered and some magic must have been woven into her words because my body failed me, refusing to struggle any further.

     Instead, I trembled with pure, unadulterated rage. Flemeth smiled, malicious glee and glinting teeth, and touched the flat of the blade against my lips. I tasted the blood on it, acrid iron with the sting of salt, and...and the sweetness that love alone could infuse into the taste of blood. I had kissed split lips, blackened eyes, lacerations, scrapes and gashes, all layered with this taste. What I had known would happen from the moment Flemeth first shifted shape and disappeared became real, visceral, and again, struggling against her spell, I pushed against the immortal bitch, a desperate attempt to break away from her, to run, to find, to comfort and heal and...and...

     "How sweetly you suffer." Flemeth's tongue purred over the words; her hand kept the blade pressed against my lips. "What will you do, Salem Cousland?" She asked, cruel. "Perhaps the  _proper_ question is--what  _can_ you do?" 

     "Let me  _go_!" I snarled, struggling against Flemeth's arms and magic, feeling muscles cramp and spasm, my bones go leaden.

     Flemeth chuckled low in her throat and the dreadful sound of glee vibrated down my spine and shot into my legs. 

     "Her flesh gave in so easily to the knife." Flemeth continued tormenting me. "Her skin parted with no resistance and a red river gushed forth. Red," her lips brushed against the notches in my ear, "the color of passion and of love. The color of beauty and of death. Death is  _not_ what I want for this world, Salem Cousland."

     "Then why do you hold a bloodied blade against my lips?" I gasped as her spell constricted my lungs; the edge of the blade nicked my upper lip, joining my blood to Leliana's. "Why do you...push me to kill...at every moment?"

     Flemeth shoved me away and, with a wave of her fingers, removed the spell. My body snapped back together and I screamed through gritted teeth. The knife, soaked with the life-force of the woman I loved, fell from her hand onto the deck of the ship.

     "I have never asked you to kill, Salem." Her voice slithered over my name, making me shudder. 

     "Of course you haven't!" The words burst from me as they had when I faced Zathrian, Rendon Howe, and Loghain, all of them fathers of atrocities. "You are  _demanding_ that I stand before the woman I love and let the life you  _forced_ me to live  _demolish_ her faith! After the torture and torment that Leliana has endured, her faith is  ** _all_** _she **has!**_ How  _dare_ you say that you have not asked me to kill! You are commiting a  _worse_ sin than murder! You..." tears appeared in my eyes and I did not fight them, letting them flow as freely as the blood I wanted to lose in Leliana's place, "...you are asking me to steal her faith and her hope for this world. God or no," I gathered my resolve and stood firm, "I will  _not_ bend my knee to you. I will  _ **not rape**_ the mind of the woman who carries the  _entirety_ of my  ** _soul!_** _"_

     "Strong words spoken from the weakest of hearts, but still you are refusing to see what I have spoken of since the day the spark of your soul re-entered your body." Flemeth's tone hardened, becoming harder than dragon scales and sharper than steel. "You do not see the larger hands here that move. You do not see the Great Game at work beyond the vision of your kind, creatures poor in spirit, afflicted with mortality. Mark my words, daughter of mankind, if your 'Maker' and her 'prophet' are allowed to preach their message, if the hearts of mortals can be touched by love and devoted to that love, the darker of my brethren will stir from their slumber and, in the absence of worship and the absence of fealty in the form of blood and atrocities, the heavens themselves will roar, tremble, and  _bleed_. Then shall come a voice from among them, a dread voice, and it will say that the gods need not war because their enemies are not one another. When those words are spoken, when their veracity is tested, your world shall burn."

     "Why? Chose? Me?" I seethed, my eyes riveted to Flemeth's own, my mind drowning beneath the overwhelming scent of Leliana's blood, my thoughts torn between moments of past and future wrapped in that scent. 

     "Because you are one who  _knows_ " Flemeth's lips curved up in a small smile that filled me with fear. "You know that it is better for one to suffer than for the world to perish. Your battered and broken body is testament to that; every scar a scream into the dark that  _you_ are willing to sacrifice. That you know your duty as it comes to this. The pain borne by one, so that the suffering of many might be mitigated."

     "And if I were the one made to bear that suffering then I would  _gladly_ do so!" I shouted, hearing my voice stream out across the water and bounce back to me from the rocks on the shore. "But  _no!_ You ask me to  _harm_ another, a sin that has been antonymic to me since the day I  _first drew breath!_ If you believe that I wish the gods to war in the heavens and rain down their suffering and misery upon us then you are wrong! But  _what_ manner of savior would call  _another,_ an  _innocent_ , to bear their mantle of pain!?"

     "I would not know." A canny light flitted in Flemeth's eyes and around the corners of her mouth and I knew that I would know nothing but pain from her next words. "Did Andraste not burn?"

     I took a step backwards, reeling, stunned, shattered. Flemeth's answer held nothing but truth. Her truth held nothing but anguish. Andraste burned...she wore the mantle of pain for her god, the Maker. The same Maker who called Leliana to be her new prophet. 

     "The one you love bears already this mantle of pain." Flemeth continued, driving a blade deeply into my psyche as sure as she had driven a blade into Leliana's body. "What more damage can you do that is not already written in her destiny?"

     "No." My throat constricted so that the word emerged in a low, choked, sob of horror. "No. I will not let that happen."

     "Yes, you will." Flemeth's laugh burrowed into the waves and lapped the sides of the ship, surrounding me. "You will, for even if you do not, the sweet and faithful Leliana is doomed as surely as Andraste was from the moment she heard the Maker's voice. You have a role to play, Salem Cousland, in this sick world that damns its saviors. Break the prophet and spare the world. Or doom the world the prophet creates. There exist no other choices."

     "You wretched, horrific,  _torment from the **abyss!** " _I raged at her, even though I knew it would avail nothing. It did not matter to me. I needed to scream. "Can you let no one rest!? Can you not cease meddling!? Leliana might have been doomed when she was called, but you have now  _damned_ her  ** _twice!_** You would use  _love_ itself to break the  _messenger of love_ and you would call that wretched breaking a  _ **salvation!** " _

     Flemeth held out her hand and summoned into it the bloodied knife she'd dropped. She held it, turning it forth and back in the moonlight. The sticky crimson coating the metal made me ill. I wanted to rip that knife from her hands, plunge it into her belly, and then slit my own throat. But, I...I...I could do nothing.

      _The woman who felled a god cannot take her own life. Leliana, forgive me my uselessness. Forgive me my existence._

     "This blade is salvation, Salem." Flemeth told me, her voice dark and foreboding. "Held in the hand of one defending themselves, this blade is salvation. But to the body into which I push this knife, this blade is damnation. A double-edged sword. Thus also is the calling by a god. You will serve a divine purpose, but in serving that purpose, you will be consumed. That is the law set down from the foundation of the beginning."

     "Did you kill her, Flemeth?" I asked, my voice trembling and weak, for my heart was not just breaking. It was cracked at its center and those cracks fissured painfully outwards, splitting my heart into minutes moments months spent loving Leliana. They dissolved and rushed through my veins as a poison. If she died then I, too, would perish. "Did you kill Leliana?"

     The bitch did nothing but smile and disappear into the darkness, vanishing in a whisper of smoke, out of my sight and out of my reach, leaving behind the knife she brutalized my soul's other half with. I walked to it and fell to my knees, defeated, broken, bruished all over my body by Flemeth's words and the truth inherent within them. 

     With trembling hands, I lifted the blood-slick blade, staring at the precious scarlet stains upon it. I knew it to be the cruelty of the world when, beneath the tang of copper and salt, I smelld the perfume of Andraste's Grace. Droplets of blood fell from the tip of the blade, each one a crashing cymbal of pain through my heart. I followed the drip of a precious ruby of blood with my eyes, watching as it spattered on the deck.

     A new smell stung the air, that of smoke, a wisp of thick grey incense surrounding the droplets of blood, moving them, twisting them, forming them into letters as Flemeth used her magic to answer my question...to torture me. My lips trembled as I read the message in the blood of my Leliana, my wife...my last love. 

      _She suffers greatly, and in her pain, she screams for you._

     I grasped the hilt of the dagger so hard my knuckles cracked. I could hear it, echoes of memories, memories of the worst of times, Leliana's voice raised in screams of agony. Always, I was able to go to her, to comfort her, hold her, soothe her, help take the burden of her pain. I could not go to her side, could not hold her, could not could not could not. 

     In a flash I took the knife and drew it across my throat, the slice of pain, pure, unadulterated agony, a rush of blood sheeting down my neck and staining my shirt. The wound closed over shortly after and I ripped the blade across it again. And again. And again. Again again again again again until the entirety of my shirt was soaked with blood...a loss that would not and could not kill me. 

     At my end with the chicaneries of gods, I remained on my knees on the deck of the ship, panting, stricken with the phantom pain of wishful suicide I could not commit. Where was the  _fucking_ Maker. My love of Leliana had dragged the Maker from her silence. If she still cared for her daughter, perhaps she would hear her less beloved if I could...if I could speak through intent.

     My hands moved of their own volition, lightning fast. I wrapped both hands around the hilt of the blade and drove it into my heart,  _screaming_ from the pain, sobbing uncontrollably, the metal piercing me a desperate, despreate prayer. 

     " _ **Honor this!** "_ I screamed, a wretched wail into the dark. " _ **Honor! This!** If you have  **ever** honored love, my Maker, honor this blood sacrifice!"_  

     If she could see...if she could see that I wanted to die, that I did not want to exist in a world where I could break Leliana's precious, beautiful, always ever-fragile faith...maybe she would take pity and heal my Leliana. Take her pain away. End the suffering that made her scream for a dead woman. 

      _Leliana, I am so sorry. Please forgive me. Please know I want to be nowhere but at your side, but I...I love you...I love you too much to break your heart._

     I ripped the blade out of my chest and the suicide wound snapped closed. Hot, bitter tears burst forth from my eyes like blood spurting from a wound. Phantom screams still rang in my ears and my stomach churned, my mouth overfilled with saliva and I vomited on the deck, shredding my insides as my soul was shredded. 

     "Maker, please." I sobbed, openly weak and broken. "If you have ever heard my prayers...hear me now. Save Leliana. Save her faith. Andraste failed you...allow Leliana to live, and I swear to you that she will not fail you. Hear the cry of a broken woman who cannot end her wretched existence. Hear the cry of a wretched failure once your daughter. I beg of you. Hear my voice one last time. Spare her."


	39. Perceived Piety and its Price

**The Boar and Dove  
** **Cassandra**

     Leliana's scream ripped through my very soul, threading through and puncturing my psyche, but I could not relieve the pressure causing her such pain. Her hand lashed out, catching my wrist, her grip too weak to move me, but I understood what she begged for in that touch. For the pain to stop. For the pressure to ease. I could not give in to her, not if I wanted to save her life. Sweat beaded on my forehead and ran down my face as I kept bearing down on the infernal wound that would  _not_ stop bleeding. 

     Leliana's eyes slammed shut; her face drained of color, leaving even her lips pallid and almost white. Her breathing quickened until she gasped in nothing but short sips of air...then her chest ceased its frenetic rise and fall. The hand around my wrist slackened its grip and her body sagged into the mattress. 

      _She's unconscious_ , my useless mind spluttered the obvious truth.  _But is it from blood loss or from pain? Or from both. Maker's breath...I **need** a healer. We need  **help**. I cannot do this alone!_

     "I cannot do this alone." I whispered the hideous truth into being, hearing desperation in my tone for the first time since Antony died...in a room not so dissimilar to this one...with a shriek not so unlike the one just wrenched from Leliana's throat...while his blood poured from his body and stained the sheets beneath him. 

      _Oh, my dear Maker,_ a lump formed in my throat and the cuts on my cheeks burned,  _please tell me it is not now as then. Please tell me the bladed did not go all the way through._

     I exerted more pressure on the wound to her abdomen, hoping that the herbs in the poultice would do their work, and soon. I did not know enough of the art of healing to do Leliana any good. I was all but useless in the kitchen candlemarks ago, helping the young Trevelyan. I could not be so useless now. My prayers did not cease as I kept a hand pressed over the worst of Leliana's wounds, not even daring to think of the three fingers she had raised...the other two punctures on the right side of her body. 

     Begging for strength, begging for help, I rolled Leliana's unconscious body onto her side, horrified when I saw the stain of blood on the sheets, and the smaller wound in her back where the tip of our attacker's blade burst from the skin. My stomach clenched and twisted in an unholy pang and I abandoned Leliana and ran out of the room, remembering the aftermath of another battle...a battle that haunted me to this day. It had been during my training to become a Seeker. An exercise. A war game that became anything but when a starving wyvern attacked my squad. I had very few friends among those I trained with, but there had...there had been one. 

      _Moira_...her name whispered through my thoughts as it had not done in some time.  _The wyvern lashed out with its spiked tail and caught Moira...in the belly. We were days removed from any manner of true aid. We did all that we could... **I** did all that I could to help her and heal her. It did no good. When the sun rose on the next morning, Moira had a fever. No matter how fast we traveled, no matter that we sent a runner ahead to bring someone back, we could not outrun the sickness. Her wounds festered, the infection claimed her, and even after a mage had tended to her wounds...she died on the sixth day. She died in agony, holding my hand, alternating between delirious murmurings of the Chant of Light and begging me and the Maker to ease her pain. I cannot watch Leliana endure that. I do not have the strength. _

     I jumped down the last few stairs and landed on the tavern floor, startling the bartender and his wife, the sole two left in the tavern. The bartender looked up from the table he was cleaning and his wife moved from behind the bar, a rustle of parchment following her. I knew I looked a fright, my hair mussed, my face cut and bloodied, my hands and sleeves and shirt soaked through with Leliana's lifeblood. 

     "I require aid." The words tumbled out of my mouth. "My friend and I were attacked again by the men who began the brawl earlier and she was badly wounded. She...she needs a mage."

     The bartender's brows, broad and thick as a caterpillar, furrowed into a deep frown and I knew it boded ill. His shoulders slumped and I looked from him to his wife in desperation, needing them to say  _something_. 

     "That does not happen in Ostwick, milady." He spoke at last. "In this city, magic is against and an affront to the Maker. Even healing magic."

     "That is preposterous!" I shouted, my heart constricting into a tight ball of fear. 

     "Aye." His wife assented, looking as grim as her husband. "But you cannot persuade Knight-Commander Caleb Trevelyan, son of our  _righteous_ lord and lady, otherwise." She spat the words. "Even if you carried your friend to the Circle tower, he would deny you a mage's aid."

      _I am the Right Hand of the Divine Justinia!_ I wanted to roar the words, but I could not. I remembered Tristan's warning and knew it to be true--our presence here, if known, would embitter the people of Ostwick and make it appear that the Chantry endorsed the Trevelyan's accursed actions. It would also cause our informant to disappear into the ether they had emerged from.  _I am the **Right Hand** and I can do  **NOTHING**! Leliana would not want us to sacrifice this mission, this chance for vital information. Maker, what in hell am I to  **do!?**_

     "Does the Chantry here not oversee the Circle?" I asked, desperate, willing to reveal myself, in private, to the Chantry here if it would secure me the services of a mage. "Can I not make an appeal to the revered mother for a mage's aid?"

     "You could." The bartender shrugged, a clear indicator that he felt it would be for naught. "But I highly doubt that Revered Mother Alathea Trevelyan would be any more open to your request than her brother."

      _This **fucking** family would kill a  **true** servant of the Maker in order to preserve their notion of righteousness! Damn them to the abyss! _

     "Is there a physician in this city? An herbalist? An apothecary?" I begged, desperate, and determined to, when I left here, bring all the might of the Divine down onto the Trevelyan family for their horrific misdeeds. It was not just Leliana that their unctuous notion of piety was harming. It was every single citizen in this city. 

      _But first, Leliana and I must **both** leave alive! Most Holy will never forgive me if any ill befalls Leliana. Oh, Maker, please let there be  **someone** who can help me!_

     "Our city guardsmen are on maneuvers." The bartender informed me. "The town physician always accompanies them. We've a midwife who lives nearby but there's no guarantee she'll be home. Sarah, help the woman. I'll try to find the midwife."

     "Thank you." I called after the man and turned to his wife, Sarah. "I need material for bandaging and clear malt liquor, if you have it."

     "Go up to your friend." Sarah nodded. "I'll put water on to boil and fetch what you might need. How bad off is she?"

     I shook my head and raised my bloodstained hands in despair. "I...I do not rightly know. I am a warrior, not a healer and she's...she's lost so much blood...enough to kill a lesser man."

     With those terrible words settling on my chest like a stone, I turned and ran back up the stairs and into the room, struck anew with terror at the sight. Leliana lying on the bed, streams of blood flowing down her sides, her lips parted, fiery hair askew across her face, her skin white as bleached bone. I rushed to her side, somewhat heartened to see that the flow of blood from the worst of her injuries had slowed. Praying that it was a good sign, that it was not because she had little blood left to lose, I drew a knife from my belt and cut through her shirt, up from the bottom and across the sleeve, tossing the dirty cloth aside. 

     "Maker, I beg you for all that I do not possess." I murmured as I tugged her arm away and saw the other two punctures--one about an inch below her armpit, the other three inches below the first. The wounds were clean and precise, completely unlike the ragged hole in her belly. "Give my hands surety, my mind knowledge, and stand with me here in this room. Help me so that I might help your servant...so that I might save her life."

     I reached for our last two poultices, pressing them against the second and third stab wounds, glancing down again at the worst one...the one that might kill her. Frowning, I reached up and felt the pulse at her neck. I could feel it, but it was too faint and too fast. Much too fast. I needed her to be awake, alert, capable of telling my stupid, shaking hands what to do. 

      _How did this happen?_ I wondered in my own, private terror.  _How on earth did this happen?_

     I moved around the bed and knelt down beside her, facing her. "Leliana." I tapped lightly on her cheek. "Leliana, I need you to wake up." 

     She did not respond and I tapped her cheek a little harder. Still nothing. I set my forehead against the mattress, threatening to give into despair, to fling my faith away and shudder through the night. The blood, the fear, the sweat, the pain, the uncertainty were all too much and I was losing my footing, losing my way of moving in this world, incapable and dumb in the face of this. 

     "Wake up, damn you!" I shouted, burying my face in the mattress, clutching the sheets with hands that  _would not stop **shaking!**_

     "P...please." I entreated, the softest rasping of whispers. "Please, Leliana."

     A soft moan met my ears and my head shot up, my gaze meeting Leliana's bleary, unfocused blue eyes. In them I witnessed the sheer amount of agony she felt, but behind that I saw a light...the light of a woman who had survived living through hell. A woman capable of enduring unimaginable suffering. A woman who knew with desperate, devastating intimacy what it was to love. To risk. To live in a world where every blade was set against her throat. 

     "S...Salem?" Her voice rang soft, full of pain, a thread of spider silk carried here on the wind of different times. I would have to shatter the dream, break her heart, call her to the present where the love she asked for no longer lived. 

     "It's Cassandra." I told her, combing her hair back with my fingers, tucking it behind her ear, trying not to notice that her tresses were soaked through with sweat. 

     "Oh...right..." Only a fool could have ignored the sorrow in her voice; the voice of one pulled from pleasant dreams and thrust into a vicious reality. "You're here."

     "Yes." I tried with all my desperation to sound comforting and competent and present. "I'm here, Leliana."

     "'M I..." she attempted to speak again and failed; swallowed hard, and attempted again. "Am...am I...still bleeding?"

     "A little, yes." I nodded, keeping my eyes locked with hers, afraid that she would slip under the black again at any moment. "The poultices are doing their work, but you need more than what the herbs can do. I will not regale you with details, but there are no healers available to us, mage or otherwise. The bartender's wife, Sarah, will be coming to help me, but neither of us know what we are doing, Leliana. I am  _begging_ you to remain conscious."

     "I...I'll try." She promised, a single tear slipping from her eye and sliding down the bridge of her nose. 

     I wiped it away, terrified of the ramifications. I'd seen too many soldiers on the battlefield shedding tears such as these. Tears of knowledge and acceptance of their injuries and their deaths. Leliana could not die. There lay within her too much worth saving, worth continuing, worth knowing and understanding.

     "Leliana?" I asked as her eyes went distant. "Why do you weep?"

     "Because this pain is almost unbearable." She murmured and my heart broke for her. She did not deserve this. Were I not blindsided by our attacker, had she not tried to save my life, our positions would have been reversed. 

     "Did Kathyra send us with anything for pain?" I asked, glad she seemed to be more awake and aware than a few moments ago, hoping against all odds that she would remain so. 

     "Yes." She whispered and shot to my feet, prepared to fetch it, but I stopped at the slight shake of her head on the pillow. "We can't." She whispered. "It slows the heartbeat and breathing. I would...slip into sleep...I would die." For some absurd, obscene reason, she said those words with a smile. 

     "What about death causes you to smile?" I asked, disturbed by her expression. 

     "Salem." Leliana breathed her beloved's name. "I would...I would see her again."

     My own lips trembled. I understood and I did not wish to understand. My focus was the saving of her life and...and for that I needed her to desire to live. 

     "Belay that for now, Leliana." I begged her, hoping to make my voice strong enough to turn my plea into an order. "Help me, please. Help me save your life."

     The door of the room opened and Sarah bustled in. Leliana turned her face towards the sound, her breath caught in her chest and she began coughing. The hoarse, ragged sound cut at my heart and nothing more, until I saw the poultice fall away from her gravest wound, and blood pour forth once more. 


	40. The Past a Horrific Key to the Present

**The Boar and Dove  
Leliana**

     I struggled. I struggled to breathe, to blink, to do everything that should have been simple. And I struggled because of the warm whiskey eyes that looked into mine, filled with so much worry and concern that I swore I gazed upon a different woman. This was not the Cassandra Pentaghast I had known, the woman who would have let the wounded suffer in order to give a mission report and receive further orders. But she had been conditioned. Used. Abused. I knew. I understood. I empathized in so many ways. I knew the horrific fight of returning from that place. Thus, I struggled. 

     "Maker's breath." I heard a foreign voice, the tavern keeper's wife, Sarah. She sounded horrified. "What can...what do...where do you need me?"

     "Sarah, this is Leliana." Cassandra's voice rested on the edge of snapping. "My name is Cassandra. Thank you for...for rendering assistance."

     "Cass..." I could not gather enough breath to say her full name. Her eyes turned to me and for the flare flicker of a moment, the amber whiskey flashed to silver-blue...a reminder of a woman who cared...a reason to struggle. A reason to continue the arduous task of finishing my sentence. My payment for a year spent in love and light was this...life. "You...have to...stop...the bleeding."

     The Seeker's lips trembled and in her entire body I could see fear. Fear that manifested when she spoke. "I don't know how." She breathed. "Leliana, the blade...the blade pierced you through. Poultices, pressure, bandaging...it..."

     "It will not...be enough." I finished the words she could not say, and she nodded. 

     A cool cloth came to rest on my forehead, held there by a strong, callused hand...the hand of a good woman. I could sense Sarah's kindness, her willingness to help...the kindness of a stranger, in a situation such as this, could be more useful than the kindness of a friend. 

      _A friend?_ I questioned myself, unable to stop the moan that passed my lips when Sarah's hand wiped the sweat from my brow and cheeks.  _Have I come to consider Cassandra a friend? To forget what transpired between us in the past and move forward from that point. To be as Justinia would wish us to be? Right and left...more than friends. Sisters._

     "No." Cassandra nodded. "Tell me what to do, Leliana. Tell me, and I will do it; whatever it takes. I swear it."

      _She will not like what I tell her next. But it is what must be done. Oh, my Maker, give me strength. Give me strength for I am preparing once more to enter hell._

     "Irons." My voice rasped. "We need...hot iron."

     Cassandra's dusky skin became ashen. Her lips trembled and I saw myriad horrors playing out in her eyes. The cool cloth trailed over my face once again, clearing my head, allowing me to think. Even though I did not trust my vision because of the blurred edges and spiking white flashes, I could see a minute shake of the raven haired head. There was blood on her face. Those wounds would scar if she did not treat them, clean them, and get the one on the left side of her face stitched. But she would not care for herself until she felt I was safe. 

      _So very much like Salem...the woman who would bleed out until everyone else had been looked after._

     "Leliana, there must be another way." Cassandra protested, as I knew she would. We did not have time for her protestations, however. I could feel thick, hot blood sluicing down my body, dripping into my navel, oozing down my spine. "Cauterization always leads to infection if not properly treated." She said, her voice taut with worry. "What if it is not effective and you continue to bleed deep within your body?"

     "Risks...worth taking." I eked out the words. "Cass, I..." I shifted the slightest bit and gasped as my wounds  _shrieked_ as if they were torn open anew. "I...don't have...much time. It is this or...or I bleed out...before your eyes."

     "I won't have a decent soul die in my inn." Sarah claimed, and I heard the sound of footsteps going to the door. "I've got a poker I can put in the coals, and I'll do so."

     The door shut behind her and I saw Cassandra in a light never before cast on her. Filled with desperation. Grasping at the situation and unable to keep a grip on it. Unable to control it. Justinia told me that, when Cassandra became a Seeker, she had been touched by a spirit of faith. I needed her faith now. But I would also need the incarnation of the first Cassandra I had met. I required someone merciless...someone ruthless and cold. 

     "Cass." I drew her attention to me once more before she began tearing out her hair. "Cass...please keep pressure." I attempted to wave my  hand in the vague direction of the wound. 

     "I do not want to do this, Leliana." Cassandra stated, her hand returning to the blood-drenched poultice and bandages that covered the puncture in my gut. I hissed as she applied a gentle pressure. "There has...there has to be another way."

     "There is not." My mouth felt dry as the desert, my words scraped against my tongue and my gums and they hurt. "Cassandra, you...must listen...and do...all that I say. Promise me."

     I watched her inner debate take place. Her lips pursed, her brows furrowed, and her eyes flashed like a commander's on a battlefield. She held all of our options in her mind, weighing and balancing them against each other and, at last, realizing that I was right. It took the matter of a few breaths for her to do so, but it felt like years. My body was burning, my heart slowing, and I knew, in the back of my mind, that what I planned to do was a stop-gap measure at best. 

      _Cassandra is right. There is internal bleeding and this might not work against it...but still...we must control what blood loss we can. I am already...already so weak. So tired._

     "I promise." Cassandra conceded, and, if I had possessed the breath, I would have sighed with relief. 

     "Listen...close." I ordered her. "You must take...the iron...and run it...all the way...through the wound." I paused and took a shuddering inhale. "I will...likely...faint."

     "No." Cassandra shook her head and steel lay in her tone. "Leliana, I know next to nothing of wound care. I need you to tell me what to do, so that...so that you...have a chance."

     "Cass." I breathed her name and she calmed. I could feel myself fading, and I struggled to stay awake. I'd kept my consciousness before...under torture and torment. I knew what I required. I would do what I needed to, injuring my psyche to save my life. "When the time comes...do  _exactly_ as I say." I gritted my teeth as pain flooded me yet again in waves, begging me to take steps to end it so that my body would cease screaming. "When Sarah returns...hold the iron before my eyes." I swallowed dry air; my throat parched. "Tell me...what you intend to do. How it will feel...spare no...gruesome detail."

     Cassandra paled another shade, and I prayed that she would find the fortitude and the wherewithal to do what I asked of her. "Go on." 

     "Give me something...to bite down on." I instructed, watching her nod as she processed the orders. "And, if I ask...strike me. Open palm...across the face."

     "I will  _not_ damage you further." Cassandra sounded aghast at the notion. "Why would you ask me to do such a horrific thing?"

     "To keep me...awake." I offered her the weakest of smiles. 

     "It will not work." Cassandra denied the idea. "What, under the bloody sun, would make you think that terrifying you and causing you  _more_ pain would help you retain consciousness?"

     "It worked..." I breathed, "...when they...tortured me."


	41. Cruel Kindnesses

** The Boar and Dove  
** **Cassandra**

     I did not want to do this. I wanted no part of it even before...before Leliana spoke of her fortnight of torture. I was so focused on the wounds that I'd not truly seen the rest of her body but...but I saw it now. The deep, horrific scarring...the lines of branding along every single rib. The hashmarks cut into her collarbones, deep and horrendous. And worst of all was her back, more scar than skin, the horrific white lines of the lash and, worse, the veins of deep red scars from the molten metal poured into the lacerations. How she survived I did not know, not when I saw the physical proof of fourteen days of anguish and agony. I could not believe that she had asked me to backspiral her into that place. 

      _How strong Leliana's mind must be, for there is nothing but resolve in her eyes...resolve and an immense amount of suffering and pain. There are many reasons that I dislike Salem Cousland, but I cannot deny...I would not have the strength to carry the heart of a woman who has been as broken and ravaged and damaged as Leliana. Salem must have been...a good woman. She must have been kind in a way that I never witnessed...because I never did anything to warrant her kindness._

     I bit my lip, waiting, keeping pressure on the worst of the wounds, knowing that I would need Leliana's help when the bleeding was stopped. There were still the two lesser stab wounds. There was still so much to do. 

      _Oh, Maker, where are you in this moment? Will you not honor her service to you, all that she has given up? Her home? Her former life? The life of the woman she loved? Will you not hear her cries of pain?_

     I lifted my eyes from prayer and noticed that Leliana's eyes were closed. She'd drawn her knees up so that the wound to her abdomen did not pull, and her arms were cradled tight against her uncovered chest. She  looked like an innocent child fighting a nightmare and my heart broke for her. The woman I once hated, once despised, began to find a place in my heart. 

     "Leliana?" I asked, praying she remained conscious still. "Leliana, are you asleep?"

     "No." She whispered, hoarse, exhausted. "I am...finding a place away. Away from the pain."

     "Oh?" I asked, intrigued and...and wanting to keep her speaking, to keep her anchored in this world, for I was terrified that she might slip into the next and this world...this world needed Leliana Cousland. "Might I ask where it is that you go?"

     Her lips moved in the softest, most fleeting of smiles. "Amaranthine." She breathed with a joy that did not belong in the mention of that backwards country. "The highest point of Vigil's Keep. We would look out...on the plains and mountains...and Salem would hold me in her arms...press her lips against my neck." Leliana coughed and winced, pain evident on her features. "Quiet moments." She said with a wistfulness that I wished I could find in my own tones...for it would mean that I had loved deeply and found another to whom I could give all of myself. "Quiet moments that...meant everything to me. The love she could convey...in absolute silence. I...I miss her, Cassandra. I miss her so much."

     I watched as tears of a darker, sweeter, harsher pain slipped from Leliana's eyes and down her cheeks. Pain so eloquent and personal that I found any words I might offer stuck in my throat, insufficient, for I could sense a holy memory in her words, in her mind, and that such a memory removed the pain of her body, lifting her above it. 

     However, I heard the sound of footsteps approaching, and the scent of heated iron struck me and I realized that I would have to become the villain once more. I did not know if I could bear this. I did not know if I could willingly cause her more pain, worse pain...I also knew that there had been a time when I would have leapt at the chance to hurt this woman. That knowledge wounded me more than standing here, useless as I was, and bearing witness to what amounted to torture.

      _How could I ever have been so bitter? Oh, Maker, I do not know how to do this._

     Sarah entered the room and I saw the poker she held in her hands, the rod glowing a burning red. A horrific, nightmarish, burning red. A red that would, I was certain, haunt me for the rest of my days. 

     "Cassandra." Leliana spoke my name, but it did not seem as though it were her voice. It held a depth and resonance I had not heard from her except...except on the day that the hand of a god stayed my angry blade from harming her. "Cassandra, this is what must be done. You are forgiven and protected. Have no fear."

      _Have no fear for I am with you..._ I steeled my heart as Leliana's eyes opened. Her body seemed to shrink, as though it had been briefly inhabited by a stronger voice and stronger spirit...how was I to know that it had not? Leliana had been called,  _truly_ called. I merely chose to serve. Between the two of us, I could see now that she was the one with the greater burden...a burden that once I envied. I did not envy it now, nor would I ever envy it again. 

     "Sarah..." Leliana's voice crackled out, "...at my back, if you will. Cassandra..." her voice grew weaker, "...you know...what to do."

     With trembling legs, I moved, and with quaking hands, I took the glowing iron rod from the stoic wife of the tavern keeper, whose eyes were filled with more resolve than mine. But of course, they would be. She helped a stranger out of innate kindness. I would be...I would be torturing a friend. As she told me to do, I held the red hot iron rod before Leliana's open eyes. 

     "You know what this is." I forced my voice not to tremble. "You know what it will do to you. Your flesh will be seared and you will scream in pain and all that you have kept hidden in your heart will pour forth into our ears. All the strength you believe you possess will be stolen from you." 

     I saw not fear, not nightmare, but sheer  _terror_ bloom across Leliana's countenance and her body flinched in the way of one who knew  _true_ agony. 

      _She asked me to do this so that her heart would beat faster, so that she would feel the need for survival and use it to override the pain that would drag her into unconsciousness. This is...this is by far the worst thing that I have ever done...and the best woman I have been committing this atrocity._

     I held the poker close to her face so that she would feel the heat of it flowing across her skin, and, with my other hand, I placed my leather bracer between her teeth. 

     "You have such beautiful features." I did not know where these words came from, but they feel from my lips and I despised myself. "It would be such a shame to mar them if my hand slipped." Leliana whimpered and I saw the pulse at her neck fluttering beneath the skin, rapid and afraid, like the trembling heart of a captured bird. 

     "Sarah, now." I commanded, begging internally for forgiveness. 

     Both of us moved in accord. Sarah held Leliana down and I drove the poker through the entry wound, pushing the glowing hot metal through her body until I saw the tip emerge from the exit wound. Leliana bit down on the bracer I placed between her teeth and an unholy  _shriek_ ripped through the room as her body convulsed against the pain. Steam rose from her wounds, carrying with it the horrific stench of scorched meat. Her legs kicked out in rapid spasms and her knuckles turned white as she gripped the sheets, every scream torn out of her until she did nothing but gasp against the bracer. I waited, letting the heat of the iron do its work. 

     "Ca...ss." Leliana choked, and I knew that I would have nightmares of this moment, for I knew what she asked. 

     I lifted my hand and, with an open palm, struck her soundly across her cheek, hearing the horrible crack of skin against skin, feeling my hand sting from the force of the blow. A sharp gasp hitched out of her throat; she spat the bracer out onto the pillow, saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth, her cheeks drenched with the salt of her tears. Sarah continued holding her down and I pulled the iron out of Leliana's body, wincing as bits of seared flesh came out stuck to the metal. 

     Leliana rolled onto her back and struggled to lift her legs, but she did not have the strength. I cast the poker to the floor in disgust and wrapped my arm beneath the bend of her knees, lifting her legs so that her feet rested on the mattress, knees raised, so that the seared wound did not tear open anew. I could see the taut, corded muscles in her neck as she strained to conquer the agony shredding through her body, emerging on gasps and whimpers that tore through my heart. 

      _She is so strong...so very strong, with a grace that one so injured should not be capable of possessing._

     I sat down beside Leliana, cupped her face with my hands, and drew her eyes to mine, hoping that the panic would flee my gaze so that I could impart comfort. 

     "It is done." I assured her. "Leliana, it is done. Come back from your fear and breathe easy. You are all right now, I swear it. The worst is over."

     "Pro...mise?" Her voice emerged as a tear-stained squeak and it shattered something inside my chest. 

     "I do." I swore, knowing that I would do everything within my power to make it so. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, knowing all that it would mean to an Orlesian, how very intimate it was, and believing that she would not misinterpret it. "Breathe easy. Rest. Tell me how to ease your pain."

     "Stitching." She whispered, a beleaguered hand reaching up and brushing near the cut on my cheek that I had all but forgotten. "Your wound...needs stitching."

     I felt tears well in my eyes. 

      _How can she do such a thing? How can she endure what we just put her through, then look to me and...and **worry** over a superficial cut? Maker, this...I... **how** was I so blind as to not see the beauty in this woman that is  **surely** your spirit within her own? _

     My tears fell. 

     "Yours first." I whispered through my grief. "Let me tend your wounds first. Then you can sleep...sleep and escape your pain."

     Her head listed on the pillow falling towards me. She reached out, tentative, hurting, her eyes shining with some emotion I could neither translate nor fathom. Her hand came to rest over mine and I could feel the tremors running through it, the aftershocks of agony. 

     "Forgive me, Cassandra." She pleaded. "I...judged you...so wrongly...long ago. Forgive me...my unkindness...I beg you."

     Her words met my ears, and everything within me fissured.


	42. Bonds Forged in Flame

** The Boar and Dove  
** **Leliana**

     Floating...drifting...dim sense of words spoken, decisions made, choices...I spoke, but I remained uncertain as to why, or what. I hoped that I said what was needed, but I wanted nothing more than to sleep. In dreams, perhaps, I might find respite from this pain. But in the waking world there was nothing but the fire that consumed me, burning through my bones, scouring my nerves, reminding me of horror upon horror upon travesty. My body had been stolen from me once before...in the dim, in the back of my mind, I wondered if it would be stolen again. 

     Through the fog and uncertainty, I heard the rise and fall of two voices, the rustles of searching and gathering, the hushed whispers of worried collaborations. I remembered all of this from long ago, in the great Chantry of Val Royeaux...Mother Dorothea conferring with the physicians...the woman herself's hands nursing me back to health. Mother Dorothea now reigned as Justinia...she had become the Mother to all the world. The woman closest to the Maker's love and eyes and side. It felt so strange, the flying of time. Watching the changes. Growing older in a way that I never thought I would grow old. 

     "Better my hands than yours, milady." I heard Sarah speaking through the bleary haze of what I was considering to be consciousness. "As I've stitched more than a ripped seam. You are her friend..."

     "After this night and what I have done," Cassandra murmured, "I am no longer certain if that is the truth."

      _Poor Cassandra,_ my weary thoughts wandered through my mind with no stay or logic to guide them _, her eyes so dark and filled with storms. She stands on the crest of the waves and fears returning to the sea for it is churning and unfriendly. She seeks out the dark places in the world and walks into them, expecting them to fissure and to break and when they do not she becomes lost and world-worn and weary_.

      _There is beauty in the darkness, dear Cassandra. There is beauty in the darkness if you allow it to embrace you. You need not stand so rigid against the forces of the world. Let the dark take you, on occasion. Only on occasion. It is amazing the places where you can find peace._

     "I'm not angry with you, Cassandra." I whispered, drawing her attention. The rest of the room shivered and blurred, but I could see her there, cutting a path through my bleariness and dizziness. "You did what...I asked and I will...harbor no ill will against you."

     Cassandra and Sarah crossed to the bed, Sarah wielding the leather pouch that I knew held the needles and silk needed for stitching wounds. 

     "This is going to hurt her, Cassandra." Sarah spoke, and I winced as I felt my right arm tugged away, revealing the other two wounds. "Four hands aren't needed to clean and stitch, so I suggest you keep her comfortable."

     Cassandra paled again. "I do not...I do not think that I..."

     "Cass..." I had no inhibitions now, and it did not seem that she minded my use of the shortened version of her name. I could see the storms inside her gaze...there was a reason that she feared being here, and it had nothing to do with anything that transpired this night. "It is a...silly request. Do you think you could...run your hand through my hair? I have always...found it soothing."

     Cassandra's lips curled into some queer little grimace and I wanted to laugh at the strangeness of the expression, but I did not have the breath to do so. Instead, I tried to smile, but I did not know if the expression traveled well enough from my mind and heart to my lips. 

     "There's a pitcher of cool, fresh well water on the dresser there." Sarah directed. "I'm certain she wouldn't mind a drink, and the sweat being wiped away. Is it me alone, milady, or do her cheeks look a mite flushed?"

     Again, I felt the piercing gaze of Cassandra's whiskey warm eyes. Her hand reached up and rested on my forehead as her eyes closed and lips pursed. The hand ventured from my forehead to both of my cheeks. 

     "She's cold and clammy." My counterpart's voice held worry. "But...I suppose...that is to be expected with the blood loss."

     "Aye." Sara replied, pulling a bottle from the table near the bed. I could not see its contents through the erratic haze of my vision, which focused and unfocused with its own will. "It will take a bit of time to recover from these injuries, but so long as she doesn't spike a fever, she should heal."

     I heard the cracking of clay, the splash of water, and a muffled curse. "Did we...did we do anything to prevent infection?" Cassandra asked. 

     "You did all you could." I spoke before Sarah could reply, attempting to give Cassandra some peace of mind. I was not the only one who needed rest, but I, unlike my counterpart, did not need the lie I just told. 

      _There is always a great risk of infection with cautery. And, in our haste to stop the bleeding, we did not clean the wound properly. It is **beyond** likely that, by the time we return to Kirkwall, I will be very, very ill. _

     "Was it enough, Leliana?" Cassandra murmured, unconscious of the vulnerability etched into her voice...and how beautiful it was spread across her features. Soft. Gentle. Not weak. Never weak. 

     "Yes." I lied again, knowing she needed to hear the untruth. That she needed the affirmation. "Please, sit. You must be...exhausted."

     Cassandra sat down beside me, making certain that she did not make my head tilt in an uncomfortable position. A cool cloth came to rest on my forehead and, with gentle sweeps, she cleaned away the sweat from pain and blood loss and nausea. Then, a cup came to rest at my lips, filled with water. Even though I felt I could drink an ocean, I took small sips so that i did not become ill and further complicate my injuries by vomiting. 

     "Kathyra is going to flay me alive." Cassandra muttered as she began to smooth her fingers through my hair, causing me to moan in comfort and satisfaction. "She told me she had concerns, and it would seem they are validated."

     "We...could not have known..." I attempted to comfort her, "...that this would happen. Kathyra is...a very forgiving woman."

     "Not as it comes to you." I heard a rueful smile in Cassandra's voice. "You are...you are loved. Cherished, even."

     I heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked, then my arm and chest caught fire. I whimpered and tried to move away from the source of the heat, but Cassandra held me firm, whispering in my ear nonsense about how it would be over soon. She did not understand...she did not burn alive. 

     The Right Hand wrapped her arm around my shoulders and held me close as I felt the fire be wiped away, and the sting of a needle piercing my flesh, stitching me back together as though my skin were a quilt. I remembered this sensation, the prick of the needle and pull of the thread, burning as it traveled through layer upon layer of my skin. So many times during the Blight...Salem had always...she had held me between her legs, my back against her stomach, my head pillowed on her breasts. She knew how much I hated reminders of the time after my torture, the grueling healing that took almost all of my strength. Salem knew and offered me all of her comfort and all of her strength. I missed that so very much. I missed someone who...who knew, without ever having to ask, without ever having had been told. 

     The prick and pull of the needle continued, as did the soothing motions of Cassandra's hand through my hair, the murmured encouragements and, at long last, the whisper in my ear that I had been silently begging for. 

     "Rest now, Leliana." Cassandra guided my head back onto the pillow. "Just rest. The worst is over."

      _Is it?_ I wondered as I caved to blood loss, pain, and exhaustion.  __ _Is the worst ever over, Cassandra? In this, my life...I think not._


	43. Memories Etched in Blood

**The Boar and Dove  
** **Cassandra**

     After a long moment of anxious waiting and pleading prayers, Sarah spoke. 

     "It looks like she's sleeping at last."

     The broad-shouldered, plain-featured woman with mousy brown hair looked like an angel to me as she finished tying off the last of the bandaging around Leliana's upper body. The former bard shifted in her sleep with a soft, vulnerable moan that whipped like fire across the raw landscape of my soul. Had it not been for Sarah's remaining composed and calm, I might have lost my bearing and sanity long ago. 

     "Yes." I whispered, slowly extricating myself from the bed where I sat beside Leliana, running my fingers through her hair at her request, while Sarah stitched the last two wounds closed. 

     I felt stiff, wooden, as if I'd been chained in one place for days on end. Every single joint ached; every muscle burned, and with every step I took, I felt I would break apart further. I poured the last of the water into the washbasin, wishing that I could look away as I cleansed my hands. I could not, however. I watched as the dried blood on my skin stained the water a bright orange, reminding me of another time...a time I did not wish to be reminded of, for it felt so close to this one. 

     "You should have those cuts on your face seen to, milady." Sarah rose from her seat and joined me at the washbasin, cleaning her hands as well. "Your friend seemed quite upset about the wounds there."

     "Indeed." I spoke, barely in control of my voice, feeling capable of nothing but one-word answers. 

     "It's obvious that she cares for you a great deal." Sarah continued, her rough voice and Ostwick accent possessing a strange quality that soothed me. "She mentioned your injuries at least twice during...during her ordeal. I must admit to you, and hope you do not think me forward, but I find your companion's tolerance for pain a mite unusual. Most I know would have fainted dead away from the mere stitching, let alone the...the rest."

     I looked up and saw my reflection in the small mirror that hung above the washbasin. The cut on my right cheek was short and small, though the amount of blood on that side of my face caused me to believe that it was deep enough to require a stitch or two. The cut on my left cheek would require many to be closed properly. However, whether they were treated or not, both of the wounds would scar. Of that, I was certain. 

      _I do not know why I am bothered by that fact,_ I thought, allowing numb to fall over me as Sarah dipped a cloth in the basin and began cleaning the dried blood from my face.  _I am a warrior and, for one such as I, scars like these are a badge of honor. However, it grieves me to think of the deeper, uglier scars that will be stamped on Leliana's body. Already, her beauty has been stolen...at least in the feeble eyes of mortal man. Tonight, I have taken inconsequential damage...and Leliana been so gravely wounded she might die. Maker, I beg you, be kind to her. Allow her to heal._

     I remained unfeeling as Sarah guided me to a chair and helped me sit down. My eyes remained riveted to the bed where Leliana lay. I could not look away from the bright scarlet stains on the sheets. In my exhaustion, phantom shapes coalesced around the bed; phantom voices began ringing in my ears. I hardly registered the sting of alcohol in my cuts, cleansing them from whatever filth might have been on our attacker's knife. I noticed even less the first prick of the curved needle when it invaded my cheek. I found myself lost in the crimson stains, the remembered screams, the flow of blood that could not be stopped...

* * *

      _"Anthony!" I scream my brother's name--raw, pure desperation shredding from my twelve year old throat. " **Anthony!** "_

_My body prepares to move, my muscles tensing. I am preparing to run, preparing to fly to my brother's side. I do not know why he has fallen. Anthony never falls. He is always standing, always strong, always there for me. A harsh hand crashes on my shoulder. It is not strong, nor is it warm. It is harsh. It is cold. It is the hand of my uncle, a Mortalitasi, a man more enamored of death than life._

_I pull away from my uncle's hand. It is all too easy to do, even though I am young and a woman, two things that mean I am ignored in this house, save by the servants, whose responsibility it is to care for me now. It is the servants who carry Anthony into the house. My uncle does nothing but shout my name, expecting that it will be enough to halt me. It is not. Not when I see the crimson spatters on the floor and hear the groan of a man in agony floating down the stairs._

_I race up the stone steps, following the sound of screaming. There is no one at the door to guard it, no one to stop me, and I rush into the room, watching our groomsmen place Anthony's body onto the bed. My brother's head is thrown back, his eyes open, his lips parted, his jaw locked wide as he cries out in agony._

_"Anthony!" I shout his name and rush for the bed, only to be caught by one of the groomsmen, his muscled arm resting against my abdomen, capable of holding me back no matter how much I thrash against him in attempt to reach my brother._

_"Milady Cassandra, this is no sight for you." The groomsmen says, but it does not matter._

_I might be naught but twelve years of age, but I am not ignorant. I know that my parents were executed for treason. I know that Anthony and I live only by the king's grace, and his desire not to dirty his hands with the blood of children, which would prove that those who wished to rebel against him were correct in their beliefs in his despotism._

_"Let me go!" I shriek, trying to push past the groomsman and reach my brother. There is blood dripping off his fingers and no one is looking for the wounds; no one is stopping the bleeding._

_They do not understand. My uncle is a ghoul. He will do nothing for Anthony by his own hand; he is too concerned for the dead. My brother **must** live! This is not what is meant to be. I  **cannot** lose him! I  **will not** lose him!_

_Even though I am struggling against the full-grown man who holds me back, even though I know I will not win, I still fight to get to Anthony. He hears the scuffle and turns his head. I see a line of blood trailing down his chin from the corner of his mouth. There is nothing but pain in his eyes. Eyes that look like my mother's. He has her soft, chestnut hair as well. I am my father's daughter, through and though. To look at us, one would not know we were blood kin._

_I know my brother is suffering, but when he sees me, the pain in his gaze fades to an expression of steely resolve. I can see that he loves me. He is the one person in this kingdom, and in the insane, internally and eternally besieged royal family, who cares for me at all. It shows in his face. It shows in the fact that his lips are moving. He is attempting to speak. I stop struggling because I want to hear him._

_"Cassie." He whispers, ragged, and more blood slides out of his mouth as he speaks the name I will allow no one but him to say. "Cassie...be brave..."_

_"The healer will be here soon." One of the servant's speaks up. I look up to see the familiar face of my uncle's nurse, a woman who cares for his fragile health. She knows a great deal about herbs and tonics, but she can do nothing for a man who is bleeding from the mouth, the blood stemming from internal injury. I am only twelve years old...but I am an ancient twelve years. "Milady Cassandra, you cannot be here. It is for your brother's own good."_

_"Let me stay." I beg, feeling, **knowing** that if I remain in the room, I can keep Anthony alive. By sheer force of will, I can keep him alive. "Let me stay I have to  **stay!** "_

_"Milady..."_

_"Let...her...stay..." Anthony whispers, even as his body begins to tremble with the first signs of shock._

_The groomsman lets go of me and I rush to my brother, grabbing his hand with my own, **willing** him to stay alive, because I know that he will. It does not matter how he was hurt. All that matters is that he will be okay. And that he will teach me how to hunt dragons. And that we will grow up together, hunt dragons together, redeem the Pentaghast name with honor and dignity. I will stand beside him on his wedding day and we will leave our uncle's house and we will live together and be happy in our home with our freedom. _

_"I'm here, big brother." I speak to him, knowing that my voice will give him strength. "I love you, Anthony."_

_He tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. I do not care. He is moving, not screaming, and he looks more like my brother now than the man made of pain._

_"Love you too...Cassie."_

* * *

     "There you are." Sarah's voice snapped me out of my reverie, one of the memories I could never forget, no matter how much I desired to. "I apologize for it not looking the best, but skin's a mite different than stitching a quilt. Quilts tend not to twitch when the needle goes in."

     "Thank you, Sarah." I murmured, reaching up and tracing the line of the cut, feeling the silk thread stitches that held it together. "I promise that all you have given us will not be in vain. We will gladly cover the cost of the things we have damaged or ruined."

     "I'm just doing my work." Sarah smiled. "Taking care of my customers. You need to rest, milady, nigh as much as your friend. And don't give me any nonsense about having to watch over her. My husband works the day tending the bar, and I work the night through, preparing tomorrow's meals, equalizing the books, and other sundries. I'll look in on the both of you now and again, and wake you if there's any trouble."

     "Sarah...I...I do not know what to say." I let my pride flutter away, for the woman was right. I required rest. My exhaustion ran deep, and there still existed the reason we had come to Ostwick. "May your immeasurable kindness earn the Maker's favor."

     "You just get some sleep." Sarah patted me on the shoulder and stood up. "Morning's not but five candlemarks away, and I imagine you've things to attend to."

     "We do." I breathed, praying that Leliana would have the strength to face what must be done tomorrow. I lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Leliana's soft, shallow breaths. The memory I revisited, ignored for years, sent chills deep into my bones. Anthony had denied a group of maleficar his services as a dragon hunter, and was savagely beaten and stabbed three times. But the healer had come and my brother been given back to me. 

     Four days later, I saw Anthony's head cleaved from his body by the sword of the blood mage he'd refused to work for. From that day forward, I could not bear being near the injured for more than a candlemark. From that day forward, I despised the fickle art of healing, a gift that could return someone loved, only to have them stolen away again. Healing was false hope, and I did not wish to endure that. I could not bear the thought of coming so close to saving Leliana from a grave injury, only to have her stolen away by infection and sickness. 

     I closed my eyes, ignoring the throbbing pang of pain in my cheek. I could do nothing now but dream...I could do nothing now but pray. 

 

 


	44. Very Necessary Distraction

**The Boar and Dove  
** **Leliana**

     "Cassandra, stop hovering." I smiled at the woman who sat across from me, sitting at a table in a shadowed corner of the tavern, hoping that the midday sun would soon be overhead. 

     She glowered at me and made a disgusted noise that came from somewhere, I felt certain, deep in her  _soul_. "I do not  _hover_." She spat the last word with complete disdain. "I am seated here, calm, waiting for our informant to arrive."

     "With overtly surreptitious glances in my direction every other breath." I countered. "You are far less stealthy than you think."

     Her lips pursed in pure annoyance. "Your cheeks are flushed, not with health or sun, while the rest of you is whiter than mountain snow. Your skin is hot to the touch, and when I changed your bandages this morning, your wound was weeping blood and pus. No matter that you are capable of walking under your own power and currently holding down breakfast, you are  _ill_. I reserve the right to care for your condition, if only in self-preservation."

     She stopped speaking and I lifted a single, inquisitive eyebrow in her direction, crossing my arms and waiting for her to elaborate. 

     "When we return to Kirkwall, Kathyra is going to take a single look at you and skewer me." Cassandra murmured. "I am...I was...supposed to keep you safe."

     The Seeker's stark, severe, beautiful features fell. I saw upon her countenance the same expression that Salem had worn when any other, save herself, sustained an injury during the Blight. It was the look of a leader who believed they had failed. I fell silent for a moment, preparing to speak to Cassandra as I had spoken to Salem so often, long ago. 

     "Cassandra," I spoke with great gentleness, drawing her eyes to mine, "there is nothing that you could have done differently, or better. We could not have foreseen our attacker, or anticipated his strength. You did all you could, and you have not failed me."

     Cassandra's eyes filled with the depth of her soul and I watched for a long moment as she struggled to believe me. Once again, now as years ago, my words did little to assuage the guilt that lay over the warrior like a mantle. However, unlike years ago, I understood that it took more than mere words to persuade the staunch heart of a warrior. To protect was their sworn oath and solemn duty. Nothing but time, with no recriminations hurled by me against Cassandra, would prove that I had spoken the truth to her. 

     "Be that as it may," Cassandra lowered her voice, "I should have at least considered that those whose actions we hindered might retaliate against us. The hatred of the Trevelyan family runs deep within this city, and I am unashamed to admit that I share in it. There is a Circle of Magi here and you are still torn open."

     I shrugged my shoulders and winced at the spike of pain from the movement, hoping that Cassandra did not notice and begin once more the incessant hovering. "Be that as it may, we are women in positions where we must take chances. I simply did not expect a man with a broken wrist to chance attacking us once again, especially without the support of his friends."

     "Indeed." Cassandra agreed, seeming to sink into herself, contemplating my words, aligning the events of yesternight in her strategic mind. "I wonder if there might have been an apostate among his comrades. He used his arm as if it was undamaged, and I have not seen that capability in anyone, save those healed by magic. With no other injuries, a broken bone can be fully mended in less than a candlemark."

     "True." I mused. "Your theory is sound, and has considerable merit. There would be many benefits to a rogue mage in Ostwick. Taking under consideration that the ruling family in this city perceives even healer's magic to be against the Maker, an apostate, willing to take the risk, could make quite a bit of gold by rendering simple healing services."

     Cassandra's upper lip curled in a sneer of disgust. "There are many dangers inherent in the use of magic, but those who would deny health and wellness to their citizens...it is despotism cloaked beneath the veneer of righteousness."

     I nodded my agreement and the room continued rising and falling even after I stopped. However, I made no mention of it. If dizziness had come already, then Cassandra was right to be concerned, though there was nothing either of us could do. Infection had already sunk its claws into me, and there would be no remedy but for my body to struggle against it. Magic could not pull venom or poison from the blood, nor could it eradicate illness. Even a skilled physician like my lover could do little else but alleviate the discomfort and attempt to keep the patient strong enough to survive nature taking its course. 

      _Cassandra knows all of this already_ , I thought, reaching for the cup of water on the table, hoping that the Seeker would not notice the faint tremoring of my hands.  _What she does **not** know is that the fortnight I spent lying on a filthy dungeon floor with open wounds, barely able to fend off the rats and  **unable** to fend off the fleas and cockroaches, permanently wrecked my body's ability to fight illness. She does not know how very susceptible I am to infections and that soon, like as not, my fever will soar to a dangerous temperature and I will be lost to delirium, dead to the waking world. Maker, I pray this does not come to that. Please, do not let it come to that. _

     "Many despots use righteousness as their cloak for heinous actions." I murmured my agreement. "True righteousness is...beautiful to behold." I remembered my wife standing strong before the Landsmeet, even though she was weak from torture and abuse and illness, being scrutinized by her countrymen, decrying all of them, risking her rank and station in defense of the elves Loghain was selling into slavery. 

     Cassandra relaxed in her seat, adopting a look that portrayed the careful thought she gave to my words. "What does true righteousness appear to you as, Leliana?" She asked. "I would know your definition, for you have seen so very much of the dark places in this world, and in the hearts of men."

     Once before, I might have heard in those words an insult, but now I saw nothing but honest inquiry. "True righteousness is selfless." I gave her my answer. "It is the blood of sacrifice and the purity of passion...not a passion  _of_ self, but a passion  _from_ self to do true good in the world. True righteousness is not seen, not heard, but felt like white fire in the core of one's very bones."

     Cassandra smiled and I felt I had done something right, but she said nothing further, instead looking to the door of the tavern and pursing her lips in frustration. 

     "Where are they?" She asked a question that needed no answer, and I grinned, realizing that, much as she had changed, patience was still not one of her virtues. 

     "In good time." I spoke, wincing as another jolt of pain roiled through my belly. "Until they arrive, we can alleviate the wait with a story."

     "I am in no mood for the tales of a bard." Cassandra muttered. "Especially not a bard who is in dire need of keeping what little strength she possesses."

     "Fair." I nodded and the world spun once again. "But I was hoping you might indulge my request for a story from you...of a personal nature."

     "Oh?" Cassandra shifted her full attention to me. 

     "Yes." I took as deep a breath as I could manage, and continued. "If you would not mind, please tell me of your reunion with the mage, Galyan."

     The Seeker's body stiffened. "Why does this interest you?" She asked. 

     "Because we are meant to work together, as one." I replied, knowing that Cassandra would respect and honor nothing but brutal honesty. "Last night, you saw me naked, bleeding, and vulnerable. You saw the worst of my scars and heard me cry out for the dead. I would know of your vulnerabilities as well...for if we do not know the other's weaknesses, how are we to protect each other?"

     The warm whiskey eyes, which frosted over at my inquiry, grew heated once more. "You would...protect me?" She whispered. "You see that as...as one of your responsibilities?"

     "I do." I answered, hoping my words would cause her neither shame nor anger. "If two are to act as one, then each must take equal share of every burden."

     "And you came by this belief..." Her question trailed off, as she realized my answer before I spoke it. I replied anyway. 

     "I was married once, Cassandra."

     The Right Hand smiled and offered a breathy laugh. "I concede to your logic." She paused, gathering her memories and thoughts and words. "I did not wish to see him again, you understand. I was ashamed...ashamed that I allowed Beatrix to deceive me; that I had believed she would give me the full measure of the truth if only because of her position and our bond. I was ashamed that I had not sought him out; not questioned the veracity of Beatrix's tale. It was Justinia who convinced me at last..."


End file.
